


Blood Bound

by Vashka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Marriage Law Challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vashka/pseuds/Vashka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco needs a bride. Hermione needs a new start. A new Ministry mandate solves both of their problems. So why are they so unhappy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood Calls to Blood

The Great Hall of the Ministry of Magic was oddly crowded for a Saturday morning. It was even more unusual to see so few wrinkles and grey hairs gracing the smooth marble halls. Instead, the youth of wizarding Britain queued up, each in a varying state of boredom. A few forward-thinking individuals brought books, or a copy of this morning’s Prophet. One cheeky Muggle-born had even brought a copy of the _Times_ and enjoyed puzzling the purebloods with obscure Muggle references as he struggled with the weekend crossword.

“What’s an eight letter word for ‘clichéd and trite’ that begins with a B?”

The fellows in line gave him a blank stare and went back to counting the ceiling tiles.

“Right. Useless…” he muttered under his breath.

“Sir?” A polite, crisp voice inquired, “I think the word you’re looking for is _bromidic_.”

The young man blinked and chewed on his quill as he contemplated the maddening little boxes. “Fantastic! That fits perfectly! Thank you, er…”

“Granger. Hermione Granger.”

The man’s eyes widened dramatically as his gaze shot up from the puzzle to stare at the small brunette in front of him. “Erhm, uh, yes. Yes.”

He shook himself out of his temporary stupor for a moment and finally remembered his manners. He smiled and said, “Thank you, Miss Granger.”

She turned around to talk to her companions. _Harry Potter! Ronald Weasley! In front of me in the queue at the Ministry!_ He took the opportunity to sneak a closer look. Potter and Weasley were often in the papers nowadays, but Hermione Granger tended to keep a lower profile. As such, he really hadn’t seen a proper photograph of her since the three graduated and went out and about into larger society.

She was shorter than one would expect of a heroine. In his mind, a Heroine always conjured images of a woman of Amazonian proportions, but Hermione Granger was definitely a bit too shrimpy to appear one of the more feared and deadly witches of the modern age.

She was also a bit plainer than he had imagined. Not that she wasn’t beautiful, but she looked… well, she looked too normal to be Hermione Granger. She looked like a pretty English girl, with lovely, even features. She looked like a girl who woke up, just like everyone else, early on this godforsaken Saturday morning, rolled out of bed, not bothering with makeup, fancy hair or other accoutrement.

Maybe he had watched too many Muggle movies, but when he had imagined a heroine, the woman who faced Voldemort alongside Harry Potter, who had belonged to the Order of the Phoenix at the tender age of fifteen, who had captured Death Eaters during her fifth year, who had shattered the NEWT records… Well, she just wasn’t what he expected.

With a shrug, he went back to his crossword. Fifteen down looked to be a bitch…

000

“Next!”

The shrill, tinny voice of the Ministry official cut through the discordant buzz filling the large antechamber in the bowels of the building. Squinting through thick, horn-rimmed spectacles, she scanned the crowded room impatiently.

“Brown, Lavender!” She barked. Her beady, black eyes focused on the pretty blonde standing at the front of the line. “Registration form and identification?”

The pretty witch handed the paperwork to the prune-faced woman and said, “Urhm, I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid of needles. There won’t be any needles will there?”

The beady black eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Klaus!”

A large man lumbered out of the door behind the woman and stood beside Lavender.

Lavender did not look amused.

“Klaus, we have another fainter. Use the special precautions.”

Lavender sputtered and turned a magnificent shade of green as Klaus gripped her upper arm and easily dragged her towards the door by her bicep.

The Heroes of the Wizarding World stood in line, like everyone else, watched this little drama with sleepy interest. And, just like everyone else, they were bored out of their mind. Taking what little entertainment from this situation as could be gotten, Hermione had taken to scrutinizing her fellow captives.

Therefore, Hermione watched the spectacle at the front of the line with some amusement, some pity. Lavender was silly, but she didn’t deserve to be treated so callously. But then again, it was just a blood draw. She smirked a little then rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe that you used to date her.”

Ron, busy picking at his nails, said absently, “Oh, I dunno. She had gorgeous tits.”

Hermione slapped him upside the head.

“Hey! What was that for?”

“That was for being crude.”

“But you aren’t my girlfriend anymore,” Ron whined. “It doesn’t matter what you think… Ow! What was _that_ for!”

Hermione sniffed disdainfully as she daintily removed her heel from Ron’s now injured foot. “ _That_ was for womankind everywhere.”

Ron’s bright blue eyes narrowed in annoyance at the petite brunette. Glowering, he said, “Harry, mate, don’t you agree with me? It’s abuse, right?”

Harry grinned. “Don’t drag me into this Ron. I know better.”

Hermione resumed her fierce study of the crowd, and she said, casually, “Where is Ginny this morning? I thought all wizards and witches between the ages of eighteen and thirty had to report to the Ministry today.”

“She’s coming later,” Harry said tersely.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Why? And do be honest Harry.” She grinned slyly. “You know I have alternate methods of getting information out of you.”

Harry shifted his weight uncomfortably in remembrance and sighed. “All right, all right. Well, we were going to come together, so I went to her flat to pick her up and we got into another fight.”

“Not again!”

“Yes, again.” Harry rolled his eyes. “I asked her to hurry up because we were supposed to meet you at six. Then she got upset. I asked her why, and she said, ‘You know why!’”

“She still not mad that you went to the fair with us instead of to that concert with her is she?” Ron said, “Because that’s just silly. Who wants to see Celestina Warbeck anyway? She’s about eighty years old and sounds like a warbling troll.”

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “But taken with the fact that you still live with us, and the matches you’ve been skipping…”

“Oi!” Ron said, irritated, “It’s not his fault that the Harpies have been scheduling matches on our on call weekends! Aurors don’t exactly have the most flexible schedule.”

Hermione huffed in exasperation. “Even so, Ronald. Can’t you see how that would make a girl insecure?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “But that’s not the worst of it. We argued about that, yeah, but then…” Harry trailed off, looking embarrassed.

Hermione made an encouraging noise in the back of her throat. “Then?”

Harry sighed. “She asked me to live with her again. And when I said that I wasn’t, well, ready for that yet, she sort of… went crazy.”

Hermione winced. “Oh, my. Yes, that would do it.”

Ron snorted. “Ginny? Go nutters? That _never_ happens.”

Harry gave him a quelling look.

“What? She’s completely batty. Once, I told her that her robes were looking a bit tight, and she hexed me bald!”

Hermione laughed incredulously. “Ron, luckily you never said that to me, or else you wouldn’t have been able to pee standing up for weeks. I think your criteria for ‘nutters’ needs some re-evaluating.”

Ron’s eyes widened and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. Harry guffawed and clapped Hermione on the back.

“Good one, Hermione.” Harry’s smile fell as he contemplated his dilemma. “But I do need some advice. What should I do about Gin? I love her, but she’s just pushing our relationship too far too fast.” Harry sighed and shuffled his feet morosely.

Hermione touched his arm gently, searching out his green eyes. “Harry, I’d say you need a serious talk about the status of your relationship and where you want it to go and where you see it going. She just needs some reassurance that she’s the most important thing in your life. Do something romantic, do something fun, anything. But talk to her, for goodness sake! Meanwhile, this situation is only going to get worse.”

Ron nodded. “Right. Look at Hermione and me. We talked it out when we started having problems and decided that we were better as friends. That was over a year ago. All in all, there was minimal awkwardness had by all. Except by Mum. Who was, as usual, a complete pain in the arse.”

“You’re right,” Harry said grimly. “But talking to her when she’s mad like this…”

“I’m sorry mate. Bugger if I know what to do.”

Harry smiled weakly. “Thanks anyway.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed as Lavender staggered out of the room, pale and sweating profusely, leaning heavily on Klaus. She winced in sympathy, remembering Lavender’s phobia involving blood.

She was jerked out her reminiscing by Harry. “Why are we here anyway? And why isn’t there anyone here over the age of thirty-five?” Harry said for about the tenth time that morning. “I know we’ve been joking about it, but can we really trust the Ministry?”

Ron’s brows furrowed and his face soured. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”

“There’s something dreadfully odd about this situation,” Hermione said. “Demanding that wizards donate blood? It’s suspicious to say the least. With the blood-replenishing potion there’s no demand for blood products like in the Muggle world. I don’t understand why we need to be here.”

“I just have a bad feeling about this,” Harry repeated. “Blood can be used for very dark magic and with the government the way it is…”

“But what can we do about it?”

The three friends lapsed into thoughtful silence as the line slowly crept forward.

“Speaking of dark,” Ron muttered.

Hermione looked up sharply but only saw the back of Harry’s cloak. Harry was in battle mode, using his greater bulk to shield her from whoever it was coming towards them. His back was tense, his hand was steady and his fingers loose, ready to grab his wand out of his back pocket at any moment. Cursing her height for the millionth time, she wiggled her way past the tall males to see what they were glaring at.

_Oh_ , Hermione thought acidly, _Malfoy. Here I thought it was someone interesting._

Draco Malfoy. Pureblood. Wealthy. Syltherin.

Utter, complete bastard.

When Draco Malfoy was a boy, he was all angles. Cheekbones, chin, brow, nose, shoulders, elbows, hips and knees. He was a skinny boy with a skinny, pointed face that, at worst, made him look like a sub-species of Rodentia and at best only modestly tolerable.

Now, as other boys grew rounder and lost their youthful good looks, the extra pounds that Draco had gained in the five years since Hogwarts suited him. He no longer looked like a Picasso study in triangles.

He was not profoundly handsome. Nor was he conventionally good looking. Hermione, after careful study, could only classify his bizarre appeal as disturbingly sexual.

His was a beauty of symmetry, sharpness and masculinity. Cruel, thin lips - mobile and expressive. Sharp, straight white teeth. A chiseled, clean jawline. High, knife-edged cheekbones that framed stormy grey eyes. Straight blond brows were angled just so, to appear both fey and dangerous.

And his body… Hermione sighed at the waste. He had been painfully thin while in school, but with the added lean, wiry muscle, his body could now be appreciated by the female gender.

Only if they could look past his charming personality, of course.

He strolled into the Ministry like he owned it. Gregory Goyle loomed over him like a dark shadow. It was common knowledge that after the Battle of Hogwarts, he had appointed himself as Malfoy’s bodyguard and head of security.

Draco barely glanced at the line and strode confidently past the rest of the queue. The heels of his Hessians echoed in the suddenly quiet hall as he and his looming guard made their way to the front of the line.

Hermione felt a dark emotion burning in her gut as he stopped in front of them.

His eyes raked them, took in their sloppy appearance and sneered. “I see the big, famous heroes still have to wait in line with the rest of the peasants. I would have thought that the Ministry would be kissing your shiny arses, but I am proven wrong. But with a Weasley amongst your number, where else could you be but bringing up the rear?”

Ron’s face flushed bright crimson, and he clenched his hands into tight fists.

As Ron retorted angrily, Hermione rolled her eyes. _Oh, Ron. Why must you fall for his stupid lines every time? Sometimes you’re just too easy…_ Hermione flushed at this traitorous thought, and concentrated on staring sufficiently balefully at Malfoy’s sneering face.

The exchange was so familiar that they might as well have done it via rote memory. Hermione barely listened to the mocking and the insults and wondered at the dark circles under Malfoy’s eyes and the lines of strain around his mouth that hadn’t been there a few months ago.

“… spineless, inbred coward…”

_He doesn’t have the complexion for stress_ , Hermione thought absently.

“… that’s right, you’re too poor to properly groom yourself…”

Formalities concluded, Draco swept to the front of the line, leaving the Gryffindors behind him.

“Does anyone know an Elizabethan play about the battle of the sexes that begins with the letter M?”

000

Mandrag’s Café wasn’t the best café in wizarding London, nor was it the most popular. On that particular morning, however, it boasted a phenomenal increase in its usual Saturday AM patronage. Happily situated next to the telephone booth entrance to the Ministry, it had always survived on the convenience of location rather than excellent service or wonderful cuisine. Being that this was an unusually busy morning at said Ministry, Mandrag’s was a surprised benefactor of the strange Ministry mandate.

The small, wobbly tables were packed with young wizards and witches, most of them trying to forget the ruination of their Saturday morning by brightening it up with a cheerful breakfast out. Unfortunately for them, the café had not heard of the mandate and the waitstaff was unable to accommodate the influx of new patrons, leaving the dining experience something to be desired.

One table in particular received distinctly sub-par service, even by Mandrag standards. Three infamous wizards sat in a dim corner booth with cracked, blood-red vinyl cushions. They seemed completely unfazed by the palpable dislike of the waitress, most of the patrons and of the world in general.

Gregory Goyle sipped on his skinny raspberry macchiato (extra whip, chocolate drizzle) slowly even though it was ice cold by the time the waitress had gotten around to bringing it to the table. He put it down and stirred the pink coffee vigorously with a bent spoon, glaring at it all the while, as if hoping to revive some flavor into the disappointing beverage. Giving up, he mused in his quiet voice, “I still haven’t been able to dig up anything about this particular Ministry mandate. It’s driving me batty.”

Blaise raised an elegant brow. “I’m surprised. Your contacts are top notch.”

Greg scowled, the expression carving deep lines onto his stern face. “Usually. Right now they can’t tell me shite about this mandate. It is not sitting right with me, especially now that the Ministry has my blood sitting in their vault.”

Blaise took a sip of his sludgy cappuccino, his fingers tapping restlessly against the cup, his elegantly manicured nails making annoying _click-click_ noises on the porcelain. “Peculiar. Very peculiar. There are endless magical uses for human blood, and none of them sit well with me.”

“I know,” Greg said grimly. “I have a bad feeling about this. But as former enemies of the state what else can we do but obey like good little citizens?”

“Draco? What’s your take?”

“Couldn’t care less,” Draco sneered, annoyed at being pulled out of his private musings.

Blaise rolled his eyes and the conversation resumed, this time without even lip service paid to Draco’s presence.

Draco didn’t give a flying fig what Blaise or Greg thought, as his mind was elsewhere. The Ministry mandate bothered him, of course. The whole bloody setup practically screamed ‘nefarious plot.’ But as his usual Ministry contacts could not bribe, threaten nor get their hands on any sort of lead, he triaged that worrisome annoyance farther down his mental list. If the war had taught him anything, it was to expend energy on problems he could do something about and to leave the rest for later.

He sipped his coffee slowly while beating down competing feelings of exhaustion and frustration. Was there no acceptable female on this entire godforsaken island?

He had to find a wife, and soon. He was the only heir to the Malfoy fortune, and with that came significant responsibilities. Chief among them was marrying a pureblood and popping out a passel of brats. Draco enjoyed his bachelorhood as much as the next bloke, and certainly thought twenty-three was too young to marry.

His parents thought differently.

If he didn’t want to be saddled with an ugly, stupid but undoubtedly pure cow, Draco had to take matters into his own hands.

_And now that Father is…_ Draco cut off that line of thought abruptly and concentrated on the task at hand. Namely, finding his future wife. While the other former Slytherins were conversing quietly, he snapped open his briefcase and leafed through his recent correspondence. Finding the letter he had in mind, he quickly re-read it.

_Draco Darling,_

_Your Father and I have agreed to your request. You may continue the search for a bride on your own. However, we are not prepared to wait forever. You may have until the end of the year to claim her hand, or we will take the decision out of yours._

_Your loving Mother_

Much better than he was expecting, but less than he had hoped. The end of the year was four months away. Still, it wasn’t a total loss. Shoving his half-finished breakfast to the side, he quickly scribbled a reply.

_Mother,_

_I am most thankful for your consideration of my unusual request. Be assured I will procure a suitable bride by the appointed time._

_Your Son,_

_Draco_

He folded the note quickly and slipped it into his jacket pocket. The first step had been cleared, but there was still the task of finding said bride within the time limit.

Feeling a headache coming on, Draco leaned on the breakfast table, narrowing his eyes a little as he mentally ran over his list of options. In his mind, he started to methodically make notes. _Let us go over this again, shall we? Not that I missed anything the first time._

Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, and Millicent Bulstrode were sitting a nearby booth, sipping cappuccinos and giggling over a letter Daphne had received from an admirer she had met while on holiday in the French Riviera. Draco winced at the thought of wedding and bedding one of his former school chums. Ugh, marrying one of them would be like marrying my sister. If I had one, of course.

The younger Slytherins had the correct breeding, but again, there was no mystery, no intellectual challenge in marrying someone who was so similar to one’s self.

Bored with the prospects in his backyard, Draco decided to broaden his horizons. A radical thought, but if one was going to research anything, he reasoned, one must be thorough. Leaning back in his seat, he glanced about the cafe while munching on his last muffin and scoped out his possible prey.

His gaze first landed on a group of former Hufflepuffs. _Pathetic. As if I would ever touch one of those bints._ Still for the sake of his future, he must steel himself to mentally check every possibility, no matter how repulsive they may seem.

Hannah Abbot was sitting at the coffee bar and was currently making calf-eyes at Ernie MacMillan, giggling every so often at one of his comments. Draco retched a little in his mouth.

A knot of female Ravenclaws sat by the sad, crumbling fireplace. Draco recognized Lisa Turpin and Padma Patil from his year, and thought a few of the other girls looked somewhat familiar. They looked to be discussing something very seriously, very sedately.

They interested him about as much as watching his mother knit. He liked a girl with a little more passion, a little more bite.

And Turpin had on a tweed jacket. _Tweed._

Enough said.

The rest of the café was sadly filled with couples and men.

He was doomed.

_I might as well let Mother and Father arrange a marriage for me,_ Draco thought melodramatically. _I’m not even sure why I bother._

As Draco contemplated a lengthy and undoubtedly futile sojourn to the continent, the café door gave another cheerful chime. He drained his over-brewed, bitter coffee and contemplated the possibility of caffeine jitters versus feeling completely alert. He glanced at the new arrivals and his mood soured even more.

_A cuppa to go, then._

Of course, Potty, Weasel and the Mudblood had to patronize the same café as he did, at the same time. Of course.

The adulation of the Gryffindorks was almost too much for Draco to handle. The staff practically fell over themselves to seat them. The manager came out to wait on them personally. They probably would get the meal on the house.

“I think we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Draco said bitterly. “Let’s pay the tab and leave.”

Blaise, always calm and composed, looked amused by his reaction but said, “Let’s.”

But the check was a long time coming. Their surly waitress looked at them sourly and sulked off to hover around Team Idiot like the rest of the lemmings, leaving Draco seriously considering whether to dine-and-ditch for the first time in his life.

As he waited, he glared at their table, somewhat grateful that they didn’t notice the group of Slytherins, but also somewhat offended. However, wounded pride aside, it afforded him an opportunity to really study the group in a way that he had not since Hogwarts.

It somewhat surprised him how little Potter and Weasley had changed. Most everyone else had either gained a little weight, cut their hair, changed their clothing style, or _something_ in the past five years. Put them into their school uniforms and they could have stepped into class without missing a beat.

Probably so that they would be recognized more easily.

Prats.

Granger, however…

Granger had not been an attractive child. She was a small thing, and had been absolutely overwhelmed by her own features. Everything about her screamed too much. Too much hair, too much teeth, too much eyes, too much mouth.

However, he had to admit that by the end of their years at Hogwarts, she had grown somewhat less cow-like. Her face had grown and settled in to a pleasant evenness, her features well balanced. Her teeth, thanks to him, were small and straight. Her hair, of course, had still been a complete nightmare.

Yet when she wanted to, she could even look pretty.

_Not pretty…_ His mind whispered. He brushed it off and continued his study of the girl.

The last time he had really paid any notice to her had been during and after the last battle against the Dark Lord. Then, she had been painfully thin, almost wasted looking. The constant stress she had been living under had made her skin wan and pale, dark bags hung under her eyes, and her hair had been worse than ever, snarled and matted.

Now… Well, now she looked positively lush in comparison. Her face no longer looked thin and gaunt, her cheekbones no longer knife-like, but striking. Her lips still hovering on the border of ridiculously full, but they were now balanced by the rest of her face. Her brown eyes were wide and almost too big in her heart-shaped face, but the sharp, biting intelligence kept her expression from vacant and naive. Her hair, that Achilles heel, was still itching for a good hair product, but had been tamed to where the frizz was actually somewhat charming rather than revolting.

She was still _too much_. Too much intelligence, too much snark, too much abrasiveness, too much lushness, too much hair, too much lips.

She was the exact opposite of everything he was looking for in a woman.

The sour-faced waitress had finally given them their bill. Draco put down a galleon for a nine knut tab, but didn’t want to wait for the change.

“Draco,” Greg said, mouth curving snidely. “Do you want to give the idiot brigade a hard time?”

Draco felt an uncomfortable churning sensation in his gut as he stared at the table across the room. “No. Let’s just get out of here.”

So Draco, Blaise and Greg left the gloomy café quietly, and the group of Gryffindors never noticed.


	2. Unexpected Correspondence

It was five o’clock PM. Time to go home. 

 

Hermione sighed deeply and stretched her sore neck, one hand rubbing the taut muscles gingerly. She twisted her tight calves to and fro and slipped her stocking-clad feet into her heels as she straightened the piles of parchment on her desk. Plucking her wand from its customary place at her side, she flicked and swished and tided up the remains of her afternoon tea with the delegation representing the United House Elf Union.

 

 _Honestly, as if I would stop the passage of laws requiring mandatory salaries for labor._ Hermione snorted remembering their panicked, desperate faces. _After all these years you’d think they would know better._

 

After leaving school, Hermione had many job offers. She’d considered following Ron and Harry into a career in law enforcement, but ultimately decided that it didn’t suit her personality. She liked research and development better than running around risking her life on a whim. So, upon careful consideration, she accepted a position with the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, combining her passions. Five years later, Hermione was now the head of the department, and, at twenty-three, the youngest department head in ministry history. (Well, except for Gerard Bixby, Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes at the tender age of fifteen. Hermione didn’t think he should really count, as he was Head during the dragon pox plague of 1750, for goodness’ sake. There probably weren’t any other qualified wizards still standing!)

 

Satisfied that her office was once again presentable, Hermione slipped on a light robe and stepped out of her office. 

 

“Evening, Euan,” Hermione said as she passed her assistant’s desk. “Any new messages I should worry about before I head home?” 

 

Euan Abercrombie looked at the list, brows furrowed. “Nothing pressing. The Centaurs want to lodge another formal complaint about Hogwarts students trespassing in the forbidden forest, but their magically binding treaty with Hogwarts is still valid for another five hundred and thirty-four years, so I don’t think that will go very far, do you?”

 

Hermione smiled in amusement. “I think not. Would hate to be the arbitrator for that contract re-negotiation.” 

 

Euan shuddered and furrowed his thick brows in a deep scowl. “Also, Theodore Nott filed a complaint regarding to, and I quote, ‘A vile family of Sphinx taken to living in the forest on my family estate. Although I doubt your Mudblood, excuse me, Muggle-born employer is talented enough to get rid of them.’”

 

“That foul-mouthed bigot,” Hermione muttered. “But I suppose even evil gits can have legitimate problems. I suppose we should be grateful that he didn’t exterminate members of an endangered species like rubbish. Have you looked over his paperwork?” 

 

“Yes, and it looks like it could be a nasty bit of business, too.” 

 

Hermione winced. “Right. Put it on my desk and I’ll look it over in the morning. We’ll see if Mr. Nott is as crafty as he is nasty.”

 

“Will do. See you tomorrow, Mum!”

 

Hermione grimaced and turned her back quickly to Euan and approached the department’s floo connection. _Mum? I’m only twenty-three for Merlin’s sake!_ She picked up a fist of the fine magical powder on the mantel and with a shout and a flash of green smoke, she was gone. 

 

000 

 

As the floo smoke was clearing in the flat Hermione shared with Harry and Ron, she stumbled out of the fireplace when her thin high heel caught in a deep crevice between the red bricks. Cursing softly under her breath, she narrowed her eyes and with a small wiggle of her fingertips, the chimney dust crept from the corners of the fireplace and into the crack, grey darkening to red and solidifying. 

 

Hermione smirked and stretched her tingly fingers. 

 

Then sneezed. 

 

Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically and humphed as she took out her wand to clean the dust off of her expensive robes. _Every time! It’s unnatural to have an_ allergy _to wandless magic._

 

She detoured to change out of her formal work robes and into a comfortable pair of jeans and a soft hunter-green jumper and made her way to the large kitchen. Halfway through the dining room, she was ambushed by a large orange ball of fluff. 

 

After an embarrassingly effusive greeting to her beloved Crookshanks, Hermione launched into her Wednesday routine. Wednesdays were special because all three of the friends could make it for supper, and they always made a night of it. It was an evening just for them- no friends, no significant others- to catch up with each other and fall into the easy rhythm they had always had. 

 

Surprisingly, all three of the flatmates were decent cooks. Harry loathed it, however, as it reminded him of his younger days on Privet Drive, so most of his meals were take away of various kinds. Ron was also surprisingly competent, owed directly to Molly Weasley’s policy of using her children for menial household labor whenever possible. 

 

Hermione usually liked to stick with tried and true recipes, but yesterday at the grocery while at the butcher counter, instead of asking for the sirloin she was suddenly filled with the wild desire to look at the fish, and ended up picking up a nice filet of salmon instead. Seized by the unexpected feeling of freedom of doing something _different_ , she splurged on the more interesting greenery (some of which she wasn’t sure was edible by anything but rabbits), a few bottles of fairy wine and a carton of ice cream (of an unknown but interesting-looking flavor). 

 

When Harry finally showed up, the salmon was baking in the oven and she was curled up on the plush, overstuffed sofa in front of the cheery fire, sipping on a cup of Darjeeling and reading _Egyptian Tombs: The True Curse-Breaker’s Test_. As the floo _whooshed_ , Hermione reluctantly glanced up from the pages and the hand holding her teacup froze mid-sip. 

 

Hermione’s brows shot nearly to her hairline. “Why are you _wet_?” 

 

Harry shot her a look. (Which was rendered completely impotent by the viscous something slowly dripping from his glasses. And from everywhere else, really.) As the distinct scent of petrol hit her nostrils, Hermione’s eyebrows climbed higher. 

 

“Long story.” Grumbling to himself he smoosh-stomped dramatically all the way to the bathroom. After the door slammed shut, Hermione stopped holding back her giggles. She was insanely curious, but she knew that she would hear the whole story, dirty details included, once Ron came home. She put her book down on the end of the cherry coffee table as the low rumble of the shower started, and padded to the sink with her empty teacup.

 

At the sink, she took out her wand and spelled the dishes clean. With a little grin of satisfaction, she waved her wand and the dishes put themselves back into their proper places. _No matter how many times I do that, I’m still ridiculously happy that I don’t have to wash them by hand._

 

Hermione set to fixing a salad, deciding that the unusual greens actually were quite tasty. She was nibbling on a bit of kale and slicing the tomatoes when the fireplace lit up, revealing her other flatmate. Ron gave her an easy grin as he shook off his heavy outer robes. 

 

“Wow, Hermione, that smells fantastic! What’re we having?” 

 

“Salmon Niciose- which is ready. Would you mind getting it out of the oven?” 

 

Ron whipped out his wand and with a small swish, the salmon was out of the oven. Ron rooted around in the refrigerator for a moment and grinned as he pulled out the bottle of fairy wine. “All right! My favorite. Do you want a glass, Hermione?” 

 

“Not right now, I’ll have some with dinner.” 

 

Ron shrugged and pulled out a long-stemmed crystal goblet. He Poured a generous glass of the golden wine, took a long sip and sighed contentedly. He hefted himself onto the counter; his long legs kicking Hermione’s side playfully and then snagged a tomato from the pile. Popping it in his mouth, he said while chewing, “Is ‘arry home yet?” 

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I’m convinced that you now do that on purpose.” 

 

Ron widened his blue eyes, giving her his best innocent look and swallowed before speaking. “What are you talking about?” 

 

Hermione snagged the scallions and waved her knife at the grinning redhead. “You certainly _do_ know what I’m talking about.” Ron’s eyes crinkled in mischief, and Hermione blew a wayward curl out of her eyes and resumed her steady chopping. “Harry’s in the shower. Do you know what happened at work today? He was covered in petrol!”

 

Ron’s eyes widened. “No. I know Harry was out on assignment with Boot today, but I really don’t know what kind of case they are working on…” 

 

Ron trailed off as the man in question came around the corner, a towel perilously hanging onto his lean waist by a loose knot. Another towel was casually wrapped around his wide pale shoulders. He was absently toweling drops of water from his lean chest as he padded into the room with bare feet. 

 

“You certainly look better, Harry,” Hermione said, regarding his bare chest thoughtfully. _He really is quite handsome… too bad he’s as sexually exciting to me as a brother._ She looked at Ron and grinned wryly. _Both of them really._

 

“Ugh! I don’t think I’ll ever feel clean. I think it’s still in my _ears_. Do we have anything for that?” 

 

Hermione kept slicing the carrots. “I think that there may be some cleansing potion drops left in the bathroom cabinet after Ron’s incident with the ghouls.” Ron shuddered and took another sip of his wine. 

 

Harry grinned as he ran the towel through his damp hair, knocking his fogged glasses askew. “Ha! I remember that- you and Goldstein were absolutely covered in green slime.” 

 

Ron smiled sourly. “Ugh! Nasty little buggers!” 

 

Harry simply laughed as he turned back to the bathroom. 

 

Hermione finished chopping the vegetables and spelled them into the salad bowl with the other greens. As she set about mixing a simple vinagrette, she yelled, “Harry, do you want any wine with dinner?” 

 

“Please!” Harry’s voice echoed from his bedroom. 

 

Hermione raised her eyebrows at Ron, and he rolled his eyes and slid off the counter. As Ron set the table with a few efficient swishes and flicks and poured the wine, Hermione tossed the salad, and poured the Dijon mustard dressing over the salmon and potatoes. With a wave of her wand, she sent the food to the table. She and Ron were chatting and serving themselves when Harry sauntered in, dressed casually in jeans and a blue Weasley jumper. 

 

Ron beckoned him over, with a wave of his wine glass. “Mate, shouldn’t my sister start coming over to these things?”

 

Harry smiled as he slid into his seat. “Nah. I like having had a night where it’s just the three of us.”

 

Hermione caught Ron’s eye and raised a brow. He shrugged and mouthed, ‘ _Later_ ,’ so she artfully steered the conversation away from Ginny to other topics. Soon, Harry was telling them the story about his partner, a thrilling chase with a Squib turned Muggle bank-robber, and a Muggle petrol station. 

 

Hermione soon was laughing so hard she was in tears. “Tell me Terry didn’t _Reducto_ the petrol pump?” 

 

Harry grinned and rolled his eyes. “He did, that idiot. I tried to warn him, but he panicked when he saw the suspect was getting away. His spell missed, of course, and petrol sprayed everywhere. I thought we were going to go up in flames on the spot.” 

 

Ron snorted. “Magic in Muggle London? That paperwork is going to be a bloody nightmare!” 

 

They all laughed as Harry groaned. He took another bite of salmon and asked, “Have you heard any rumors at work about a big secret project? All of the higher ups are quite hush-hush lately.” 

 

Hermione raised her brows. “Can’t say I have. But my department doesn’t interact with many of the others, so it’s possible something is in the works as long as it doesn’t involve Magical Creatures.” 

 

“I’ve noticed that the blokes in Internal Affairs have been a bit twitchy lately,” Ron said as he took another sip of wine. 

 

Harry leaned forward and steeped his fingers. “Whatever is going on, it’s massive. I spoke to Kingsley about it point-blank and he wouldn’t tell me anything.” 

 

“That’s not like Kingsley,” Hermione said, worriedly. 

 

The three friends were silent for a moment, but soon conversation picked up. Ron and Harry traded stories about work, Ginny, and Quidditch, and Hermione listened attentively, as usual. 

 

“So, Hermione, you’ve been quiet. How’s your week been?” Harry asked. 

 

Hermione opened and closed her mouth at the realization that she could say nothing that they hadn’t heard before. She had nothing to tell. And she was sad. Her life was content, happy, peaceful, perfect, and utterly _boring_. 

 

Distressed, Hermione lowered her head and picked at her fish.

 

“What’s wrong, Hermione? You’ve hardly touched your food.”

 

“Am I boring?” The words were out before thought, and Hermione covered her mouth in shock. Had she really said that? She had meant to mumble the standard something about work, stress, etc. She furrowed her brow and considered. If it was bothering her this much, maybe it was for the best that it was out in the open. If she couldn’t trust Harry and Ron by now, she couldn’t trust anyone. 

 

Harry and Ron sat in shock, silent for a moment. Ron shot Harry a significant glance and nodded slightly. Harry cleared his throat. “Hermione, we’ve noticed… a bit of a change in you since Hogwarts.” 

 

“What kind of change?” 

 

“Erhm. Well, Ron and I love you of course. So don’t take this the wrong way…” 

 

“Don’t take _what_ the wrong way?” 

 

“You’re dull,” Ron said, very earnestly. 

 

Harry’s eyes widened significantly at Hermione’s mortified expression. “Shut it, Ron!” He hissed under his breath. Louder, he said, “What Ron means is that you seem to have lost your purpose.” 

 

Ron nodded his head vigorously. “Right. When we were fighting You-Know-Who? You were on _fire_.”

 

“But you seemed happy, so we were happy,” Harry interrupted. 

 

“And you never used to be boring- just swottish and proper.”

 

Hermione glared at the redhead to her right and took a long draw on her wine, emptying the glass. “Keep talking, Ronald,” she said, “It builds my self-esteem.” 

 

Harry sighed at Ron’s look of confusion at the Muggle term and took Hermione’s hand, squeezing it tight. “We’ve been thinking about this for some time, Hermione. After the war, if anyone deserved a break, it was you. You were always there for me, through the woods, Gringotts, Hogwarts, _everything_. And your talents were always strongest in the areas of research anyway. So when you decided on a safe desk job, we didn’t think anything of it. But the past few years you’ve been growing unhappier and unhappier and we didn’t really know how to _help_ you…”

 

Harry trailed off at the sight of tears welling in Hermione’s eyes. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sharp rapping of a haggard tawny brown owl pecking at the kitchen window, loaded with parchment. 

 

Ron stood and crossed to the window and opened it for the poor creature. Taking the heavy packets from the owl, he gave the tired bird a treat and let it stay awhile to rest. 

 

He quickly glanced at the post and said, “There’s one here for each of us, from the Ministry. I wonder what they want at this time of the evening.” He tore into his letter with his dinner knife and started reading. 

 

Hermione looked at Harry, who looked like he wanted to continue the conversation, and sighed. “I don’t know what to say, Harry. I know I’m in a rut, but I don’t know where to begin to make changes.” 

 

Harry rubbed his fingers over Hermione’s knuckles and smiled crookedly. “Hermione, as long as we’re alive, you’ll never be alone in this. We’ll get through this together, just like we always have. I think that-”

 

“Harry, Hermione,” Ron interrupted, grimly. “You need to read your letters. _Now_.” 

 

000

 

She was perfect. 

 

Well, she looked the part anyway. 

 

Astoria was the kind of gorgeous that belonged in pictures. From head to toe, she was the epitome of elegant beauty. Her features were regular and symmetrical in a heart-shaped face framed by long, sleek golden hair. She had dark brown eyes, which Draco had always personally preferred. She was tall enough so he wouldn’t have to lean over to kiss her, and her robes draped elegantly over her willowy body. 

 

After months of dating inbred Squibs, Draco had finally found a girl that was the epitome of pureblood breeding. Draco had known Daphne Greengrass for years, and was pleasantly surprised her sister looked and acted nothing like her. Astoria was lovely, restrained, elegant, and pure. An ideal wife. 

 

Draco had never been so bored. 

 

“More wine, Astoria?”

 

The girl’s red mouth smiled demurely, her honey-blonde locks swaying prettily as she shook her head. “No thank you, Draco.”

 

Draco didn’t trust that smile. _Beauty_ , he thought, _Certainly doesn’t go with brains, in my experience. Or humility, for that matter._

 

Dinner progressed at a snail’s pace. The conversation never faltered, as both Draco and Astoria were too well bred to allow awkward pauses, but it stayed in the realm of glittering superficialities, bright remarks meaning nothing. 

 

Sometimes Draco surprised himself at functions like these, at his ability to slip into his old, pre-war habits. Draco went to great lengths to disguise his paranoia and saw his ability to hide it as a great success. To everyone else, he was still the same prejudiced, spoiled brat. He thought Greg had some idea of how he’d changed, and perhaps his parents, but no one else seemed to pick up on his preference for sitting with his back to the walls. Or the subtle wandless spells he cast over his food before consuming it. Or the way he watched the wand hands of everyone within a casting distance. 

 

It developed as a survival function. He observed and catalogued and avoided direct confrontation those horrible years until he existed in a hyper-aware state most of the time. He couldn’t turn it off. He’d tried. There were twelve other couples in the room, three of the men looked like they’d have something to bring to a fight. The waiter had his wand in his right sleeve, and hadn’t touched it during the course of the meal. The woman in the right corner near the palm tree had a glamour to make her look ten years younger. The candles at the table were charmed to create a subtle atmosphere of romance and peace. (Which, in his case, were decidedly _not_ working.) 

 

His hid his sigh of irritation, a normal wizard would be plotting how to get into his exquisite date’s undoubtedly exquisite knickers. _He_ was currently plotting his escape route in the event of a homicidal maniac causing a stir. (It was possible – there were enough batshit insane former Death Eaters at large to make Draco nervous in unfamiliar public places.) 

 

He could use the table as a temporary shield if he overturned it, but it certainly wasn’t strong enough to withstand a blasting hex, let alone a _Reducto_. Assailants would undoubtedly enter through the main door, or possibly through the kitchen, leaving his best avenue for escape the large window to the left of Astoria. 

 

Draco tried to beat his paranoia back down into his subconscious. He was on a _date_. He was good at thinking on two levels, but not that good. If he accidentally let slip that he was seriously considering her use as a human shield in the event of an attack, she might leave before he decided if he wanted to see her again. 

 

That certainly wouldn’t do. 

 

With his heightened observational skills, Draco couldn’t help but observe his date’s habits. He found himself critiquing her dinner choices, her conversation, and her dress for amusement. When he started internally jeering at her choice of the chicken over the veal, he mentally slapped himself. What was he doing? She was everything a sane man would ever want in a wife, easily. Yet he didn’t want a doll-woman. He knew his temper, his passions, his flaws. He wasn’t an easy man; he was bitter and cynical. Women like Astoria were nothing to a man like him. 

 

With effort, he put his mind back to the conversation, groping for a topic, any topic that seemed to evoke a genuine response in this woman. 

 

All of the fashionable subjects were covered over the soup and salad courses. The weather was discussed in grave detail-- it had been an unusually fine autumn day-- during the foie gras and caviar. By the time the entrée plates hit the table, Draco had exhausted his already modest amount of patience. 

 

_Is it too much to have a real conversation with a woman?_

 

Cutting his veal viciously, he watched the delicate way she minced the chicked on her plate, and how she took small bites to avoid smudging her perfect red lipstick and, irrationally, it irritated the hell out of him. Her flawlessness annoyed him. Snidely, he asked, “So what is it you _do_ exactly?” 

 

With satisfaction, he watched Astoria’s lovely smile fade. “Pardon me?” she said. 

 

Draco waited until the moment grew uncomfortable, out of spite. He took a bite of his veal, and chewed slowly. He wiped his lips delicately with his napkin. As he saw her gold brows draw together in a frown, he inwardly gloated. He moved to speak, but took a long draw of his wine instead, letting the taste of black cherry, pepper and tannins settle against his tongue. 

 

“I don’t think that you’re a very nice man, Mr. Malfoy.” 

 

Draco bared his teeth in a mocking smile, his eyes cold. “Not particularly, no. I’ve been too spoilt to have the patience of a truly good man.” He leaned in, letting his voice go low and husky. “Nothing a good woman couldn’t fix.” 

 

Astoria caught her breath, and her dark eyes narrowed in thought. “I believe I’ve been boring you.” 

 

Draco smirked and drained the rest of his wine. It wouldn’t do to scare off the most promising marriage prospect in all of Great Britain, no matter how dull she truly was. He would prefer to love the woman he chose to marry, but sadly, it seemed that it was not in the cards. 

 

He desperately wished for some sort of chemistry, some spark of awareness. He could at least work with that, possibly mold it to something more. Determined to try harder, he gave her a hooded glance, knowing the effect it had on women. When he saw her lips part slightly, he let his gaze drop to her mouth. 

 

“Not at all. I’m just in a boorish mood tonight. Business, you know.” He reached across the table and touched two fingers to her delicate bejeweled wrist and smiled, with devastating effect. “Now none of this ‘Mr. Malfoy’ nonsense. You called me Draco earlier, and I much prefer it.” 

 

The carefully orchestrated moment was interrupted when the waiter came and swiftly magicked away their mostly empty plates. Ramekins of crème brulee and coffee appeared on the pristine white linen. 

 

Draco, rather heroically in his opinion, resisted the urge to hex the bloke. 

 

Over coffee, Draco exerted himself to be his most charming, his most seductive. Astoria was still quite dull, but her frosty demeanor thawed as Draco enticed her with smiles and compliments. 

 

She was as pliable as a wand of willow to his charms, yet her easy compliance irritated him still. Perhaps his annoyance with her could be a good thing? Wasn’t it better to feel _something_ for her other than indifference?

 

He resolved to behave the perfect gentleman for the rest of the date-- he offered his hand to her as she got up from the table, he helped her with her wrap, and held her arm as they tandem-apparated to a small park. As they walked down the dimly lit path, they discussed wizarding music, a subject that gave Astoria’s perfect features more animation. He rechecked the smooth length of hawthorn at his side as his eyes scanned the trees, and patted her hand as she adjusted her hold on his bicep. _Relax, Draco_ , he told himself.

 

Draco made sure to listen attentively as Astoria talked about her time at the French Wizarding Conservatory for the Gifted, and about her passion for the violin. She played for a small chamber quartet based out of London, but traveled around the world quite a bit. 

 

Draco was suitably impressed- wizards, while quite talented in many arenas, were typically much less musically gifted than Muggles. Hence, there were very few wizarding schools to study music, or even musical groups. However, being less gifted was no barrier to Draco’s mother. As Astoria prattled on about her favorite composers, Draco remembered endless, torturous piano lessons and the stern, frowning face of his mother when he tried to skive them. 

 

Conveniently, the autumn breeze could excuse his shudder. His iron-willed mother was one of the things that he would never dare fight against in his lifetime. Although he’d always craved the heady feeling of his father’s unconditional approval, he supposed he could rebel against his father if the cause was right. But his mother… no. Narcissa Malfoy was a force of nature when she wanted something, and was nigh near unstoppable. Perhaps he’d inherited more of that will than he thought. It would certainly explain why Astoria’s easy pliability goaded him. 

 

Soon, the couple reached the Thames. Following the curve of the river, they reached a grand ship, brightly lit with torches and fairy lights. Other witches and wizards, clad in their best robes and sparking jewels, milled around the dock, greeting each other with bright chatter. Draco relaxed slightly as he catalogued the patrons. _No obvious threats, but best to remain alert._

 

At the sight of the theatre, Astoria smiled in anticipation. Draco, remembering many evenings of boredom at this very place, could already feel the collar of his robes tightening. 

 

He gestured to the carpeted oak gangplank. “After you, my dear.”

 

As they took their seats in the Malfoy family box, Draco felt slightly more at ease. He had his back against a thick oak wall facing the outside of the ship, and he could see everyone and everything from his high vantage. He told himself that he could relax, but he knew that he wouldn’t. At least he could _try_ to enjoy the performance. He’d never been a particular patron of the arts, having no ear for music, but he approved of the activity in a future wife.

 

Especially since it meant that he could shuffle her off to the theatre when he needed time to get away from her. _Stop it_ , Draco thought, _just stop. I can’t afford to screw this up._

 

As the candles snuffed out, one by one, Draco plotted. If he were to woo Astoria, which he wasn’t entirely set on yet, he would have to prepare himself for many evenings of theatre. _Hopefully she likes plays as well as musicales, otherwise I’ll go batt_ y, Draco thought acidly. The orchestra stared to play the overture, and he settled in for a long evening. He slanted a glance over at his lovely date. Smiling dreamily at the stage and paying no attention to him, she looked absolutely ravishing. _Perhaps I could throw in a gallery exhibit or two. Infinitely more interesting to look at antiquities and art._

 

Draco sighed and squirmed in his comfortable chair. Why did everything in his life have to be so difficult? It seemed his cross to bear. After being raised with the expectations of an easy life where everything was given to him, to be violently thrown into the real world where even the simplest task was a life and death struggle stung. Even after years of scorn and hardship, he still wasn’t immune. 

 

Finding a bride, not the easiest task in the first place, was made infinitely more difficult by his reduced social status. Of course, he was still rich and handsome- which were points in his favor- but he scorned the women who would date him simply for those shallow reasons. He wanted what his parents had – a match where both partners genuinely cared for one another and would defend each other to the death. 

 

He frowned slightly. Lovely, boring Astoria had spent the war away from the fighting in France, and the best she could probably to do to defend him would be to stand in the way should any hex or curse be aimed at him. That was unkind. Perhaps she could throw her violin at an assailant before _he_ threw _her_... Hmm. No instinct to defending her to the death or noble sacrifice in _those_ thoughts. 

In spite of it all, she was still the best prospect he had. Astoria wasn’t his first choice, and he wished she were more passionate, but she at least seemed to be interested in him rather than his fortune. She was convenient, certainly, but that didn't preclude the possibility of a happy marriage. He supposed he would have to find out. The date his parents set for declaring a future wife was drawing near, and there certainly weren’t any other more suitable candidates lying around in the hedgerows.

 

Draco snickered at his vestigial sense of romanticism, and quickly looked at his date to see if she noticed. She hadn’t. _Perfect. It’s like we’re married already_ , Draco thought bitterly. He subtlety started to massage his temples to rid himself of a burgeoning headache. 

 

Luckily, the orchestra broke for intermission within a few minutes. Draco turned to his date and offered her his arm. Smiling so that his face hurt with it, he escorted Astoria to the glittering lobby. 

 

“Oh, Draco, I see Medusa and Iris! I’m going to go freshen up.” 

 

Draco kept smiling and nodded slightly. Astoria sashayed to her friends, the long line of her back exposed by the low cut of her robes. Draco watched her giggle with the other two witches, slanting glances in his direction with heavily made-up eyes. The witches tugged on Astoria’s hands in the direction of the restrooms, presumably to gossip about their date. 

 

Draco picked his way to the bar slowly, nodding politely at a few of his acquaintances and smiling superciliously at a few of his parent’s friends. It was difficult to relax when in the midst of a crowd; to not feel claustrophobic and too-aware of wands and subtle movements that may signal attacks, to tell himself he wasn’t surrounded by enemies, but stupid socialites for whom the war was academic. He was jittery and highly irritated by the time he made his way to the bar, and he traded a few galleons for quick service and something intoxicating.

 

Breathing a sigh of relief, he stepped onto a deserted balcony off the side of the ship, relieved to be outside and away from the people. He closed the French doors, shutting away the noise of the crowd. Leaning his forearms on the railing, he slouched over and stared at the water, and tried to clear his mind as the firewhisky burned down his throat. 

 

Just as the alcohol and the lapping water were working their subtle magic, he heard the latch of the door rattle. He put a tense hand on his wand and turned to glare at the intruder. 

 

“Hullo Malfoy,” Theodore Nott said. He stepped onto the balcony, a glass of blood-red wine in his hand. He smiled tightly and fidgeted. “It’s bloody hot in there. Mind if I join you?” 

 

Draco relaxed slightly, but did not take his hand off of his wand. Nott wasn’t a friend, precisely, but he wasn’t an enemy either. He did mind, actually, but his opportunistic side was always eager for a chance to pump someone for information. “Evening, Nott.” He gestured for Nott to stand beside him, and the other man visibly relaxed. 

 

The former housemates made polite conversation for a few minutes, each one subtly prying the other for information, weaknesses. They traded business tips and gossip, stories about common acquaintances and family, ignoring for the moment their mutual animosity for the pleasant illusion of friendship. 

 

Nott’s ugly face scrunched up in disgust as he described his current dealings with the Department of Magical Creatures. “They’ve buried me in so much bloody paperwork can’t keep track of it all. Of course, Granger is absolutely impossible to deal with. Bloody annoying cow.” Nott rolled his eyes. “I should have just gotten rid of those damn Sphinx myself. _Endangered_ , my arse. But if the Ministry ever found out, I’d be fucked. I’m not about to go to Azakaban over some damn animals.” 

 

Draco’s mouth twisted. “Certainly not. Former supporters of the Dark Lord would not be granted any leniency if such a situation were to come to light.” 

 

The men were silent for long moments, lost in their thoughts. Nott drained his wine and tossed his glass into the calm waters of the Thames, where it landed with a quiet splash. He ran a hand through his dark hair wearily. “You did get the worst of it, didn’t you Malfoy?” 

 

“If you’re even thinking about pitying me, I’ll eviscerate you,” Draco said. 

 

Nott’s answering laugh was short and bitter. “Who pities Malfoys? Your family so foul that any soft emotion is wasted on your sort.” He smiled nastily. “It’s why I could never stand you in school, and why I can’t stand you now. Your ego was so inflated that it was almost divine justice that the Dark Lord chose to punish your family. It could have just as easily been me, so easily. So when I think about what happened, and am moved to pity you, I remember that little shit of a kid and I don’t feel quite as bad.” 

 

“Merlin, I need another drink,” Nott muttered. He took out his wand and Draco tightened his grip on his length of Hawthorn, ready to strike. But when Nott only muttered a quiet Muffliato, Draco relaxed.

 

“Are you going to insult me further, or do you wish to duel?” Draco said, “This conversation is truly riveting, but I’m afraid I need to attend to my date.”

 

“Look Malfoy, I don’t like you, you don’t like me. That’s fine. But I came out here to warn you.” 

 

“What?” Draco exclaimed, startled. 

 

“My sister works in the Department of Internal Affairs, and she told me that something big is coming, something that will change our world forever.”

 

“I’m listening.” 

 

Nott looked through the windows at the glittering lobby and milling crowd. “They’re mixing blood. My sister has seen them do it, but as a child of a Death Eater, she has very little access to the actual potion. We don’t know whose blood it is, and what they hope to accomplish, but it can’t bode well. We’ve scoured our library, and we’ve come up with nothing. Nothing!” Nott hesitated, and then said, “You have more resources at your disposal…” His words trailed off and the weight of his dark gaze settled on Draco. 

 

Draco was silent for a few moments. “Why should I care?” he asked. 

 

Nott leaned a little closer to Draco, his mouth a thin, grim line. “You and I, we’re in the same bloody position. We barely survived the war by the skin of our teeth, and our lives are just now getting back to a decent sense of normalcy. Do you want to sacrifice that?” 

 

Draco looked away quickly, not wanting Nott to see the expression on his face. 

 

“I didn’t think so. See you around Malfoy.” 

 

Shocked and more than a bit worried, Draco stood in the shadows of the balcony for a long while, thinking. When the candles dimmed signaling the end of the intermission, Draco collected his date and escorted her to the box. He made chit-chat without really thinking about what he was saying, his mind still reeling. 

 

 _Mixing blood? What the nine hells is the Ministry doing?_

 

Draco spent the rest of the performance balanced on the fine edge of his control. He wanted to rage at the interference in his life, rage at the fates, rage at the Ministry, rage at anyone who was even remotely responsible for upsetting his plans. Countermeasures were useless without more information, and _no one_ who knew anything about the project was talking. 

 

 _They’ll talk now_ , Draco thought, viciously picturing the revenge he’d take if he weren’t satisfied. _Apparently I’ve been too lenient on my informers. That will change._

 

The show ended as Draco was contemplating the financial, moral, and physical ruin of various Ministry officials. Grabbing Astoria’s hand, he led them out of the box and off of the boat as quickly as possible as quickly as possible without raising he suspicions. 

 

As he tandem-apparated them to the Greengrass manor, he was jerked back into the world of the living, and remembered his other responsibilities. _Mother would have a fit if I just left her here. Time to put on the show,_ Draco thought, pasting a seductive smile on his face. Taking Astoria’s slim hand in his, he felt her stiffen at the sudden contact. Tugging softly, he slowed their brisk walk down the long gravel drive to a more sedate pace. 

 

The Greengrass family estate was near the seaside at Dover, and Draco could smell the faint tang of sea-salt. The apparation point was inconveniently at the end of the long drive, so guests and family had to walk to and from the large Manor in all sorts of inclement weather. Draco was not amused. The autumn night wasn’t cold necessarily, but it was clear, and the breeze was bone-chilling.

 

“Astoria, you should take my cloak.” 

 

“Oh!” she said, “Thank you, Draco. You don’t have to…” 

 

“My pleasure.” Draco dramatically swept his cloak over her shoulders, careful only to touch her arms. She immediately straightened the folds of heavy wool and velvet so that they lay in lovely lines around her. She took her time, and he thought that she might have been more affected by his gallant gesture than she let on. 

 

He couldn’t quite tell if she flushed at his attentions, but he fancied that she did. They made their way to the grand entryway in silence, but it was much more comfortable than the superficial chatter that made up the rest of their evening. 

 

Astoria stopped, her hand on the door handle. “I had a lovely time tonight. Thank you, Draco.” 

 

Draco smiled. “I think that the pleasure was mine, Astoria.” Taking her gloved hand in his, he bowed neatly over it and placed a brief, dry kiss on the back. He took a swift, interested glance at her red lips, but easily restrained himself from the temptation to taste them. 

 

Smiling triumphantly, Astoria opened the door and took a step inside the foyer, but stopped suddenly and turned, gold hair flying. “Oh! Your cloak…” 

 

“I’ll come back tomorrow to pick it up,“ Draco said, “Would that be acceptable?”

 

She nodded her head regally. “Yes, thank you.” 

 

When she finally closed the door, Draco felt a mixture of relief and grim satisfaction. If he wanted her, Astoria would fall willingly into his arms, his bed and into matrimony with little persuasion. 

 

However, that was the question, wasn’t it? Did he want her? 

 

It was still relatively early when he arrived at the Manor, so instead of ascending to his bedchambers, he took a brief detour to his study. 

 

Malfoy Manor held a strange place in his heart. On one hand, some of the best memories of his life were made here. On the other, here was where he had truly learned to fear. 

 

Shuddering slightly, Draco suppressed the memories of those terrible years. If he didn’t, he knew the night would be long and sleepless. 

 

He poured himself a glass of wine and noticed a note sitting next to the crystal decanter. 

 

_Dearest Draco,_

_An owl came for you tonight at six ‘clock and the post looked serious. I urge you to open it immediately. I do hope it isn’t anything to do with the business._

_Your Loving Mother_

 

Interested, Draco picked up the heavy packet. There were magical seals preventing tampering with the letter, and Draco smiled. Curiosity about the letter’s contents must have driven his mother _mad_. He traced the runes of the seal carefully with his index finger before breaking it and beginning to read. 

 

The crystal goblet in his hand fell to the ground and shattered, spilling the wine across the lush carpet like blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to both Ravyn and Heist who helps immensely with this chapter.


	3. The Malignant Ministry

The Atrium of the Ministry of Magic was once again unexpectedly crowded early Thursday morning. This time, it was not just with the youth of wizarding Britain gathered in the hallowed halls, but jam-packed with possibly the entirety of the wizarding population, from blushing youth to elderly grandmother, rich, poor and everyone in between. They filled the giant hall, but more and more people crowded in, and the fireplaces started to leak green smoke from the high-volume Floo traffic. 

 

They all had one thing in common. 

 

They were angry. 

 

Incredibly, emphatically angry. 

 

The problem with angry witches and wizards is that by the nature of magic, every magic user allowed to use a wand should be considered armed and dangerous. And a horde of enraged armed and dangerous people certainly was Law Enforcement’s worst nightmare. 

 

Yet the poor Aurors were torn. They were ordered to control the giant mob of furious wizardkind. Yet, most of them were also incredibly angry with the government, their employer, as well. It made for poor enforcement, to say the least, when the majority of those responsible for controlling the mob felt like joining it themselves. 

 

“…This law is shite!” 

 

“The Ministry has _no right_ to do this!”

 

Incoherent screams and angry mutterings were the order of the day. The atmosphere was tense, thick with a violent energy. The people were waiting, waiting for a signal to destroy the place, to quiet down, to murder their elected officials, _anything_. 

 

They needed answers.

 

Human nature dislikes the disruption of the orderly nature of things. The way things had always been is the way things always should be. Even those who profess to like change hate it when it comes too fast, even if change is necessary. 

 

It makes people ugly. 

 

For the life of her, Hermione couldn’t remember ever being so angry. Not when she slapped Draco Malfoy silly for making fun of Hagrid. Not when Umbridge ran Hogwarts. Not when Bellatrix Lestrange tortured her at wandpoint. No, this _situation_ had twisted her guts into a ball of screaming fury. 

 

And the fact that she was even _remotely_ associated with a government that would do something like this? Absolutely abhorrent. 

 

Someone screamed obscenities about the Minister and blasted a vicious hex at the Fountain of Magical Brethren, a stream of red light blasting the majestic golden wizard. The statue’s hat and a significant portion of the head were blown away. 

 

The crowd cheered. 

 

Hermione could feel nothing but approval. She was sure the violence felt good.

 

Ron, pale and tight-lipped in his black leather combat outfit, led the offender away. She wondered how he was able to control himself. Last night, he was just as angry, if not angrier than she was. 

 

He was the one who screamed until he was purple. 

 

She was the one who threw things into the fireplace to hear the satisfying smash. 

 

Harry drank himself into oblivion. 

 

After breaking most of the glassware in the flat, Hermione thought it was a good idea too. 

 

In the midst of the shouting in the atrium, Hermione noticed Draco Malfoy standing at the edge of the crowd, just behind her. He wasn’t screaming himself hoarse like other concerned citizens, but he was, to her, just as upset in his own subtle way. 

 

Draco was most definitely on edge, frazzled even. It had been years since Hermione had seen him anything but immaculate, but today he was simply dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers. He wore no tie. Hermione was momentarily distracted by the unaccustomed view of his pale throat, the long elegant line of it marred only by a day’s growth of beard. 

 

He was leaning against a column, eyes wary, his face tense. His expression was filled with the expected anger, but with something else as well. It wasn’t quite fear, it wasn’t anxiety… It was a quiet alertness, an edge that Hermione had always found in battle, but seemed slightly out of place for a situation such as this. 

 

The crowd, riled up once more, surged forward, pushing her into Malfoy’s side. He stiffened; his hand quickly going to his wand. 

 

“Excuse me, Malfoy,” Hermione said, in what she hoped was a neutral tone. 

 

Draco narrowed his eyes, but his hand inched away from his wand. 

 

 _An encounter with no pithy comment on my heritage?_ Hermione thought, _He must really be off his form today._

 

Standing so close to him, Hermione couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his face and felt something like camaraderie with the former Slytherin. She was sure she looked no better. 

 

The crowd surged again, and they were unexpectedly pressed together from chest to ankle. And Hermione was suddenly _aware_ of Malfoy, more than she had ever been in her whole life. 

 

Her first impression was that Malfoy was as fit as he looked- no glamour charms needed. She would be surprised if there was an ounce of fat on his tall muscular frame. His body radiated intense heat, almost burning her through her thin robes. He smelled expensive- like French cologne and spicy wine, but tinged with a faint aroma of freshly cut grass and a slight musk that made Hermione have an embarrassing urge to bury her nose into the skin of his exposed throat. 

 

A fierce wave of mortification surged through her, and her face felt hot and cold all at once. Her gaze flew to his face, and met his, her breath coming in short gasps. 

 

She was arrested by the intensity there, the banked emotion. 

 

 _What is he thinking?_ Her lips parted softly, and his grey eyes focused on them. She saw his throat bob slightly as he swallowed hard, and a lock of pale blond hair fell into his eyes. Hermione’s hand itched to sweep it back. 

 

Suddenly, Harry’s calm voice - calm, clear and distinctive - washed over the crowd, and the mob quieted down. Hermione, no longer pressed to Malfoy’s lean body, stumbled back a little, disoriented. 

 

When Hermione’s wits returned, Malfoy was gone. 

 

000

 

After their Hero spoke, the mass of wizardkind certainly wasn’t pacified, but the atmosphere did grow marginally less dangerous. 

 

Until Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared. 

 

Dressed to the nines in an expensive Muggle suit, Kingsley looked handsome, professional, and forbidding. A knot of Aurors, dressed in intimidating black leather, surrounded him, wands drawn, and their faces grim as the crowd hollered obscenities, booing and hissing. 

 

The mood was violent, precariously on the edge of a mass riot. 

 

Kingsley held up his hand, and the crowd quieted, albeit slowly, the mob’s thirst for blood barely banked. 

 

“My countrymen, my friends. You have all received your letters summoning you here today. And I know you are angry, and that you seek answers. I know that this comes as a shock,” Kingsley’s gaze hardened, his stance becoming more aggressive, reminding Hermione of the Auror she once knew. “But it was a necessary shock.” 

 

Shouts erupted, and the Aurors conjured a strong shield, blocking the many hexes headed in the Minister’s direction. “This new Marriage Act was not created on a whim. It was not a power play. Indeed, it may still prove a futile effort to stem the disaster that approaches – our extinction.” 

 

The room was abruptly silent, the violence replaced with something just as potent, just as intoxicating to the masses– fear. 

 

Kingsley continued, seemingly oblivious to the chance in the assembly. “I have declared the country to be in a state of emergency.” 

 

“The birthrate per couple is currently less than one. Some families have been fortunate enough to have more than one child, but most have not. The experts at St. Mungos assure me that if these birth rates keep going the way they are now…” 

 

He paused, closed his eyes, and then continued. 

 

“We will have bred ourselves into extinction within four generations.” 

 

The crowd gasped. 

 

“The Statute of Secrecy was proclaimed to protect our population. Instead, it seems to have doomed us. It is the same with the magical populations of every country across the globe. We have been in contact with the other wizarding communities in Europe, the Americas, Asia, Australia, of Africa, and we have all reached the same conclusion. We, the magical, are dying. 

 

“This is a crisis. A crisis fueled by generations of fear, a fear of the new, a fear of the outside world. This is a global crisis, but our country is in a more fragile state than those of the rest of the world. Precipitated by the extermination of Muggle-borns and of half-bloods by those who followed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Britain’s population is even more delicate. We are not so lucky to have a varied genetic pool.

 

“In other countries, their governments have decided to let participants who wish to marry be subjected to tests to determine their fertility. If they are suitable, then they will be allowed to wed. Here, in Britain, we must be more radical. 

 

“Using blood, we have determined the matches that will produce the strongest children, the most magical children. These are the children that will make the wizarding world stronger. The world will no longer be ‘pure,’ but it will be something better. 

 

“It will be healthy. 

 

“We know that relationships are personal business and business that a government shouldn’t go mucking about in. If it weren’t for the terrible situation, we wouldn’t have even dreamed of it. But this is a crisis. Those wizards who wish to contest the pre-arranged matches on the grounds of being in a previous relationship must submit themselves for testing. If there is no consanguinity in their family trees, and if their compatibility is the same or greater than the compatibility of the pre-arranged matches, then we will consider the petition. Until then, the matches are legally binding.” 

 

The crowd started to rumble at this, regaining a hint of its earlier animosity. 

 

Kingsley held up his hand, and the audience quieted, faster than before. “It is a great burden we place on the young people of this generation and perhaps the next - the survival of our people and our way of life rests on their shoulders.” 

 

“As such, we the Ministry declare that anyone refusing this decree shall be treated as a traitor to wizardkind everywhere, and be treated accordingly. Banished, magic bound, to live as a Muggle forever.” 

 

Kingsley sharply inhaled, and then his shoulders sagged slightly, as if bowed by the weight of his words. But the moment of humanity was brief, and then Kingsley was once again unreadable. “Good morning to you all. And good luck.” 

 

The Minister descended from the makeshift podium and into the bowels of the Ministry flanked by a quad of Aurors, but they were no longer necessary. The crowd was as silent as a grave. 

 

000

 

“This is possibly the most unromantic business in the history of time. And I’ve seen dad’s Valentine’s gifts,” Ron said sourly.

 

Harry nodded gloomily and Hermione couldn’t help but silently agree. They waited together in a nondescript hallway in the bowels of the Ministry building, huddled together in a shell-shocked cluster with family and friends waiting for their names to be called. After Kingsley’s speech, the crowd had grown remarkably docile, accepting their fate and this new law when just moments before they were ready to tear the Ministry apart with their bare hands. 

 

Hermione wasn’t quite as convinced. 

 

However, with no imminent riot to take care of, Harry and Ron were discharged from Auror duties to wait with the rest of the anxious masses for the news.

 

To be told who they were going to marry. 

 

It _was_ rather daunting. 

 

They waited in small shell-shocked groups, huddled with friends and family, waiting for the Ministry to shackle them to another poor soul for the sake of future generations. Hermione, while as shocked and appalled as everyone else, was still angry. Kingsley’s pretty speech didn’t satisfy her need for knowledge. 

 

Hermione, when looking at the situation objectively, could see the irony in it. Muggle-borns were now prized for the very thing that they were despised for in times past. Their new blood was no longer frowned upon, but very much desired. But Hermione couldn’t be objective. No matter how much she told herself that the Ministry’s explanation for the law made a certain ruthless sort of sense, the crusader in her couldn’t get her mind around the violation of human rights inherent in such a policy. She could buy that the population was in trouble and that drastic measures needed to be taken, but why this scheme of matchmaking? What purpose would it solve if the couples inevitably hated each other and the government? 

 

The more Hermione thought about it, the angrier and more confused she became. She had taken to pacing agitatedly, trying not to notice the steady stream of people going in and out of the innocuous wooden door and the expressions on their faces. 

 

The waiting was unbearable. They tried to make nervous small talk, but as the youth of wizarding Britain was called, one by one, even Molly grew silent. 

 

“I just hope she isn’t a troll,” Ron said, haven taken to blathering inanely in his shock, or fidgeting with his wand. “Merlin, what if I have to marry _Bulstrode_ , or something equally as repulsive? I mean, just the logistics of… of… ugh! I wonder how the officials in Internal Affairs plan to manage _that_?” 

 

“I’m sure they have something equally as invasive to our privacy and against our human rights,” Hermione said acidly, her toes tapping against the floor. 

 

Even though they tried to put on a brave front, they were obviously worried. Ginny had Harry’s hand in a death-grip. Ron ceaselessly prattled. Neville was picking at his fingernails. George cracked joke after joke, jumping a mile when a new name was called. Molly and Arthur were putting on a brave front, but would speak in hushed, harsh whispers at various intervals, throwing nervous looks at the innocuous door. Percy, trying his best to be supportive for once, would periodically go to get updates from his bureaucratic friends, unfortunately only heightening the tension of the small group. 

 

Hermione had a tight knot of nerves in her stomach and every once in a while the sour taste of acid would rise to the back of her throat. The candidates would walk through various doors when their name was called overhead, obviously leading them to a common area inside the building where the matchmakers would introduce them to their Ministry-sanctioned spouse. Couples stumbled out of the door, looking overwhelmed, horrified or pleased, depending on the match. 

 

It was hell to watch. 

 

After an eternity, a magically amplified voice called, “Ronald Bilius Weasley. Ronald Bilius Weasley.” 

 

Molly clutched at his shoulder, her face white. Ron gulped. “It’ll be fine, mum. You’ll see.” Giving them a sickly smile, he walked through the door. 

 

If the waiting was unbearable before, after Ron left it became completely intolerable. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours. They stood in a tight, tense huddle, and Hermione almost wished for one of George’s pranks to lighten the mood. But no such luck - grim-faced like the rest, George clutched his wife Angelina’s hand like a life preserver. 

 

When Ron finally stumbled out of the door, clutching the hand of Luna Lovegood, it was almost anticlimactic. After the rush of family members feeling out Ron and Luna’s take on the match, Hermione approached them with a tentative smile. Luna smiled back serenely. 

 

“Are you happy?” Hermione asked. 

 

“Oh yes,” Luna replied, “After our date last month, I knew that Ronald and I would end up together eventually, he just hadn’t seen it yet. This just sped things up a bit.” 

 

Hermione leaned up and whispered in Ron’s ear, “Really?”

 

Ron just flushed and smiled sheepishly.

 

With a lighter heart, the group waited for other names to be called. Percy was matched with his longtime girlfriend Penelope Clearwater. Charlie with a old flame from his Hogwarts days. Neville with Hannah Abbot. 

 

After a lunch of cold sandwiches and iced tea provided by the Ministry, Harry and Ginny were called. Ginny squeezed Hermione’s hand hard, but walked to the door with a confident stride. 

 

The family continued waiting, their mood still glum, but the exhausting edge of anxiety a bit doused. 

 

Harry and Ginny stumbled out of the room looking shell-shocked, clutching each other tightly. Hermione scrambled to her feet from her place on the floor. “Harry? Ginny?” she said, her voice tentative. “What's wrong?” 

 

Ginny, still clinging to Harry’s shirt like a lifeline, burst into tears. Her knees buckled, and Harry gently sat her on the cold floor, one hand clamped around her waist, his other hand stroking her fiery hair gently, soothingly. Ginny’s hand snaked up around his neck into his messy hair at his nape, and Harry closed his eyes, suspicious moisture clinging to the corners of his dark lashes.

 

Hermione glanced at the others, helpless. It was obvious that something bad, very bad, had happened. It was less obvious what to do about it, as the assorted Weasleys and friends stared at each other and at the pain in horrified fascination. 

 

Kneeling at their side slowly, Hermione placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder blade. He flinched at the contact. 

 

“Harry?” 

 

Harry’s eyes opened and Hermione felt her gut clench at the anger and helplessness in them. _Oh, Harry. Oh no. Not you._

 

Hermione bit her lip, drawing blood. “Something happened, didn’t it?” 

 

“What the bloody hell do you think happened?” Harry stormed away, his face a mask of anguish and anger. 

 

Spurred into action, Ron followed him immediately, his long strides catching up with Harry’s shorter ones. Arthur looked between the two highly distraught young people, and with a significant glance at his wife, took off after Harry. Molly knelt beside Hermione next to her daughter and took Ginny in her arms. 

 

The two women waited patiently, and soon Ginny’s sobs quieted to a steady hiccupping. Wearily she scrubbed at puffy, red eyes. “I must look a fright.” 

 

When Molly and Hermione remained silent, Ginny sighed. She began to speak slowly, as if the words themselves were heavy weights. “The Potters and the Weasleys are apparently second cousins. According to the medi-witches, we have a seventy percent chance of having a squib,” Ginny closed her eyes tightly, as if willing the thought away. “I’ve never seen Harry so angry. He was so calm at first, but when they told us we could never be together, he started to lose it. And when they told us who I was matched with…”

 

Hermione felt the small coil of dread in her gut expand and settle in for an extended stay. “Gin, who is it?”

 

“Goyle,” Ginny said, her face eerily blank. 

 

“ _Goyle_?”

 

“Goyle,” Ginny laughed bitterly. ”Goyle’s parents immigrated directly from Germany. His bloodline is apparently in no way related to mine. The Weasleys are apparently hard to match because we’re related to _everyone_ ,” Ginny said, tears streaming down her face. “But our match is bloody _outstanding_.”

 

“And Harry is… My Harry is going to marry Parkinson. I… Oh, I’m going to…” Ginny grabbed a rubbish bin, and promptly heaved her guts into it. 

 

Hermione sat on the hard wood floor next to her, Molly on the other side. They both took turns petting Ginny’s hair and saying soothing nonsense. When Hermione’s worried eyes met Molly’s and Hermione had to look away to hide her rapidly welling tears.

 

It wasn’t fair. They had fought a war. They had brought down Voldemort, the darkest wizard who had ever lived. Weren’t they allowed some peace? Weren’t they allowed to be happy? 

 

Happiness was not their destiny.

 

Their destiny was, as always, to save the world. 

 

Tears streaking down her cheeks, Hermione clutched Ginny’s narrow shoulders until her name was called. Leaving her heart-broken friend on the floor with her mother, she stood unsteadily. She squared her shoulders bravely and scrubbed her face with a quick glamour. With the illusion of courage, she went to meet her fate. 

 

000

 

Hermione walked through the door with a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had faced other obstacles before – madmen, mad _women_ , torture, N.E.W.T.S. - but the last time she had felt this overwhelmingly helpless she was being tortured at wandpoint by Bellatrix Lestrange. 

 

The door opened into a dark corridor, surely appropriated from some horrid Gothic novel. The darkness did nothing to calm Hermione’s fears. She marched down the gloomy passage past a long series of forbidding doors, each with cheerful little signs in pink lacquer proclaiming, “Not here, Miss Granger!” 

 

Her thoughts tumbled through her brain too fast for her to process. _What if it’s someone I know? What if it’s someone I don’t know? What if he’s ugly? What if he’s mean?_ She walked down through the endless black corridor, mind numb, as the doors continued to say, “Keep walking Miss G!” 

 

Finally, Hermione stopped in front of the door whose sign read, “Right here, Miss Granger!” She did not enter. She put her palms on the cool wood and took an unsteady breath. _Steady your nerves_ , Hermione thought, clenching her teeth, _you can do this._

 

Before she lost her courage, she rapped on the door sharply. 

 

“Come in!” a cheerful, muffled voice called. 

 

Hermione lifted her chin, quickly smoothed her hair and plastered a polite smile on her face. She pushed open the door, and hid her trembling hands. “Um, hello. I hope you haven’t been waiting…” Hermione trailed off as she saw who was waiting for her. 

 

The man was tall, blond and athletically lean. His face was cruelly handsome, all planes and angles, no softness in his features. As she approached, his back sharply stiffened from an indolent slouch like he was stung with a stinging curse. 

 

And she knew him. Merlin, yes, she knew him. 

 

Malfoy. 

 

Draco Malfoy. 

 

Draco _Malfoy_. 

 

Her eyes focused on Draco’s pale face in shock. Blearily, she was impressed with his composure because other than the dramatic widening of his eyes and the accelerated rate of his breathing, he was quite expressionless. In contrast, Hermione was sure her mouth was flapping like a goldfish. An _unattractive_ goldfish at that. 

 

 _Fish aren’t attractive_ , Hermione thought, _Oh my. My mind’s cracked, hasn’t it?_ The world started to tilt crazily and Hermione suddenly felt overheated and cold at the same time, and Malfoy’s face was covered in such lovely sparkles…

 

A hand on her arm steadied her while the edges of her vision went black. A smooth male voice spoke quietly while strong hands and arms supported her limp body. “Granger? I’m leading you to a seat.” 

 

Hermione gratefully felt her backside being parked on something solid and the man spoke again. “I suppose this answers the question about foreknowledge of the match rather handily, doesn’t it?” 

 

The world righted itself slowly, and Hermione soon felt stable enough to open her eyes. And promptly felt like shutting them again when the man kneeling before her looked like the one blond, pointy-faced bully she could never, ever forget, even if she wanted to. Determining that she was in no immediate danger of collapse, Malfoy rose from his position in front of her swiftly and took his seat in the large wing-backed chair beside hers. He fidgeted for a moment, his hand caressing his wand briefly, the movement carefully covered by a lazy shrug of his shoulder. He was on edge, but was very, very good at concealing it. 

 

 _Interesting_ , Hermione thought, _Malfoy still has some of his battle tics._

 

A glass of pumpkin juice was shoved into her hand by an elderly witch in a set of blindingly bright lime robes. “Oh, Miss Granger! Are you _quite all right_? Do you need medical attention?” 

 

Hermione shook her head gingerly, grimacing at the nausea the motion produced. “No, I’m quite alright. I think that with a little rest I will recover promptly.” 

 

The tiny witch pursed her lips thoughtfully. “We can _certainly_ delay the meeting if you wish.” 

 

After taking a long swig of pumpkin juice and making sure her voice was steady, Hermione said, “Thank you, but I would like to continue with the meeting,” She smiled, looking rather anemic. “I’m feeling much better already.” 

 

Draco and the witch both looked doubtful, but Hermione glared at them and the witch, at least, looked appropriately intimidated. Draco, however, seemed amused. Hermione narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin in a look that always cowed Harry and Ron, but Draco’s lips only twitched in response. 

 

The witch introduced herself as Miss Imelfa Ridgebit, official ‘Marriage Liaison’ of the Ministry. She was a small, older creature, obviously color-blind. Dressed in bright lime green robes decorated with an abundance of ruffles, she looked rather like a neon birthday cake. The ensemble was completed with cotton-candy pink necklaces, ringed round her neck, and sparkly rings on every finger. Hermione could care less about fashion, but even she winced internally at the bright outfit. Miss Ridgebit shuffled the papers on her desk for what seemed an inordinate amount of time before she handed them each a thick stack of parchment with a final flourish. 

 

Hermione scanned at the first page and grimaced at the amount of legalese she was going to have to wade through. Because there had to be a loophole in this hellish situation, and if there wasn’t she was damn well going to create one. 

 

“Now that the _excitement_ is over, I just wanted to say what a _pleasure_ it is to _finally_ meet you both!” Miss Ridgebit beamed, her puffy little cheeks getting plumper with adorable dimples. 

 

“From your reaction I _assume_ you are already acquainted?” Hermione would swear it was physically impossible, but the witch’s smile widened further.

 

Hermione managed a nod, not trusting herself to speak. From the corner of her eye, she saw Draco do the same. 

 

“Oh, lovely!” Miss Ridgebit, whom Hermione was now quite sure was insane, actually clapped her hands in delight. “That will save quite a bit of time!”

 

Hermione barely restrained herself from cursing the daft cow, and snuck a glance at Draco. She was gratified to see him glowering at the woman with the cutting stare that she remembered from school. That the witch was too stupid to notice the danger she was in certainly wasn’t his fault. 

 

Miss Ridgebit leaned forward and said, in a hushed voice, “The Ministry is _very_ excited about this match.” 

 

“Are they?” Draco drawled, his voice dripping with ice. 

 

The Ridgebit woman continued on, oblivious. “Oh _yes_. In fact, it is possibly the most _spectacular_ match of the bunch!” She picked up a piece of parchment from her towering stacks and adjusted her spectacles. Scanning the parchment she practically cooed with pleasure. “Why, you will have virtually _no_ chance of having a squib. And, _my_ look at that fertility score! Oh, magical potential and intelligence probabilities are _very_ impressive as well.”

 

“And do you happen to know the height and weight of these paragons?” Draco said snidely, “I’m keen to know their eye color. How about you, Granger?” 

 

Hermione, felt a large, soon to be vicious headache coming on. The information she was hearing was just too surreal. In no sane universe was she compatible with Draco Malfoy, and the very thought of _fertility scores_ made nausea rear up, full force. She was sure she looked like a goldfish again. Desperately, she said, “How can we verify if this data is accurate? I have never heard of anything, magical or Muggle, that can produce these sort of results.” 

 

The bubbly little woman had the audacity to look smug. “That is _classified_ information, Miss Granger.” She smiled brightly. “All you need to know is that the methodology is _incredibly_ accurate.” 

 

Screw hexes, Hermione now wanted the personal satisfaction of strangling this woman. _All you need to know, indeed._ It set her teeth on edge and made her anger level rocket from ‘highly inflamed’ to ‘severely dangerous.’ She clenched her teeth producing a fierce grinding noise, causing pains from where she was crushing her molars together coursing through her skull. “So I’m just supposed to take the Ministry’s word that my best match is with Draco Bloody Malfoy?” 

 

The elderly witch blinked. “Yes, of course. The Ministry has only the best interests of the wizarding population in mind.” 

 

Hermione felt like laughing hysterically, then hexing the bloody idiot, and _then_ strangling her. “Then I’m afraid to inform you of a miniscule face that escaped the infallible Ministry’s notice.” Hermione gestured to both Draco and herself with a wide sweeping motion. “We. Hate. Each. Other.” 

 

“Well,” said Miss Ridgebit, “I know that the selection committee took into account many different factors when deciding these matches and a history of social antagonism and other past relationships ranked _highly_ in the process. I can _assure_ you, if they matched you with each other even with those past factors taken into consideration, the committee must _firmly_ believe that you can work things out.” She then proceeded to smile brightly as if her speech made everything all better. 

 

The roaring sound in her ears couldn’t be the world collapsing, but she certainly felt like it was crumbling into dust at her feet. Hermione knew that she would be an emotional wreck later. She felt frustrated tears threatening to leak out, felt the fine trembling in her hands. She was entitled to a breakdown right here, in front of this crazed, idiotic witch and the unbelievable prat she was apparently supposed to marry. But that was not who Hermione Granger was. 

 

Shoving emotion aside, Hermione’s brain went into survival mode. Acidly brutal thoughts about how her future was being decided by a committee and what she would like to do to said committee if she ever found out who was on it gave way to a niggling idea. It was a small idea, a small hope, but she had to try… 

 

Even if it failed, it would buy her some time. 

 

“I have another proposal to put before the committee before the betrothal between Malfoy and I is finalized.” Hermione swallowed the acid that rose to her throat as she said the words. _Now I know there is a hell. And I’m in it_ , she thought. “I would like to propose an alternate match, with Viktor Krum.” 

 

Hermione felt, rather than saw, Draco startle at the name and wondered what was going through his head. He had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout this nightmarish encounter, except for a few digs at the moronic Miss Ridgebit. Sneaking a peek at him through her lashes, she noticed how very, very still he was, like he was poised to attack. Quickly assessing his hands and posture, she determined that he was not in any danger of reaching for his wand. Somehow, that made her more nervous. What was he up to? 

 

Miss Ridgebit stared stupidly at Hermione for a few moments. “Isn’t he the Bulgarian Quidditch seeker?” 

 

Nodding, Hermione said, “Yes, and as he and I have almost no chance at consanguinity, I propose you run your little… test… using him as a potential husband.” 

 

“A _Bulgarian_ national? I don’t know… there would be _quite_ a bit of paperwork…” 

 

Hermione spoke quickly, shoring up her paper-thin plan. “Oh! Of _course_ Viktor would immigrate to _Britain_ after our marriage and not the other way around. I am just too attached to my native country.”

 

Hermione could practically see moment the reality of the offer clicked in Miss Ridgebit’s tiny brain. “He _is_ a world class Seeker. If he became a British citizen…” 

 

Hermione smirked. “Of _course_ he would play for England when he emigrates! Now, if you’ll consider…” Hermione paused as a drop of moisture fell on her cheek. Wiping it carelessly, she continued. “If you’ll consider the possibility of granting an extension of…” More drops of liquid fell on Hermione, splashing her robes. 

 

“What the…?” Hermione looked up. Dark grey clouds were pouring from the edges of the room, swirling and streaming around the head of Draco Malfoy. Blinking rapidly, Hermione tore her gaze from the indoor weather system to look at his hands. They were clenching the armrest of the chair so tight his knuckles were white. No wand. Gasping, her eyes flew to his face, startled by the display of wandless magic. 

 

It was raining in earnest now. Draco’s blond hair was plastered to his head and streams of water ran down his pale skin. His mouth was set in a grim line, and his jaw was tense with emotion. 

 

His eyes were furious. 

 

“I accept this betrothal,” Draco said, his voice tight, “If Granger thinks that she can up and marry some foreigner, she can forget it.” 

 

A bolt of lightening slammed into the desk punctuating his statement, blinding Hermione. It was followed by a loud clap of thunder. 

 

 _How like Malfoy_ , Hermione thought, her rage and horror growing. She dragged her trembling fingers through her soaking wet hair. _So bloody dramatic._

 

Self-control snapped. Standing up, she furiously marched to the seated Draco. “There is _no way_ I am marrying you!” she shrieked, her wand out, poking it viciously into his soaked chest.

 

Draco slowly stood up, his tall body unfolding from the chair gracefully. Immediately, Hermione grew uncomfortable at his nearness, but refused to be the one to back away. He grew closer and closer until they were almost touching and she could feel the heat of his body through her water saturated clothes, could feel the tension in his lean frame. She looked up, up and met his grey eyes and shivered at the hot rage there. 

 

Draco shoved a soggy piece of parchment in her face. “The match proposal states that both parties must agree to the investigation of a possible alternate betrothal.” He bared his teeth in a cheap facsimile of a smile. “I don’t agree.” 

 

Hermione grabbed the parchment, stunned. Reading the rule, she felt the energy and rage drain, leaving her body feeling empty and worn. She looked up from the document and stared at Draco’s cruel, beautiful face. 

 

“Why?” 

 

Draco didn’t answer, but his eyes seemed to soften. But if he was going to speak, he lost the opportunity as Miss Ridgebit started to babble delightedly. 

 

“Lovely, _lovely_! Now let me go over the _details_. Fist things first, the marriage has to take place within the month…” 

 

Hermione supposed the woman talked for some time about settlements, expectations and the like, but she didn’t remember any of it. She was too shocked. She couldn’t take her eyes off of her _fiancé’s_ pointy, calculating face as he quietly absorbed the information Miss Ridgebit was all too happy to impart. With a quick drying charm they were all comfortable again, sitting quietly together, calmly discussing their betrothal. 

 

It was enough to make Hermione want to cry. 

 

Yesterday, she had craved change, wished for it, begged for it. 

 

She put her head in her hands. The fates certainly were evil little bitches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks go to Ravyn for the beta on this chapter.


	4. Happily Never After

Indoor weather systems aside, Draco supposed the rest of the meeting went as well as could be expected. 

 

Which was to say, poorly. 

 

Granger was on edge, obviously upset, frustrated and angry as a hellcat. Her skin was unnaturally pale, her full lips colourless. Her eyes held a fanatical light that Draco vaguely recalled from O.W.L. revisions. And her body held a familiar readiness, her hand gripping her wand like a warrior ready for battle. 

 

The revolting Miss Ridgebit continued with her effusive explanations of the marriage contract, unimpeded by the death glares or homicidal body language. Draco’s mind whirled as she talked, half of his brain paying attention, the other jammed with thoughts, plans, schemes. All interspersed with chastising himself for his stupid display of power. 

 

Draco had noticed odd displays of accidental magic, increasing in frequency over the years. His old wand, the familiar length of hawthorn he had used throughout Hogwarts, did not respond to him like it used to, before Potter, before the Elder Wand. Potter had given it back to him after his trial, saying he preferred to use his own newly repaired wand. But the wand had switched allegiance, Harry Potter had used it to duel the most powerful wizard ever to live, and somehow it left its mark on the hawthorn, right down to its unicorn hair core. When his emotions got the best of him… things… would happen. 

 

He demanded another wand from Ollivander, after a ghastly nightmare had set a terrible fire in his bedroom, but after trying all of the other wands in the shop, none fit as well as his hawthorn wand. So he was stuck with it and with the accidental magic. 

 

So when he was angry, he was dangerous; his magic was a wild thing, lashing out at whoever displeased him. 

 

And he was angry. So very, very angry. 

 

“… and now I will leave you two _alone_ to get to _know_ each other better,” Miss Ridgebit tittered slightly, as if at a silly joke, “but as you already know each other so well from school, I’m sure you’ll start to get on _splendidly_.” 

 

Draco, suppressing his grimace, stood and took the revolting woman’s hand, bowing slightly over her be-ringed fingers. He smiled slightly at her obvious pleasure. “Good afternoon, Madam.” 

 

Hermione, her expression one of haughty disapproval, said nothing. 

 

Miss Rigbebit bustled to the door, and with a quick, “Tata!” and a slam of the door, they were alone. 

 

He was alone with his _fiancée._

 

Betrothed. 

 

Engaged. 

 

To Hermione Granger. 

 

The weight of it settled into Draco’s stomach like ten stone. 

 

His future bride did not look happy. To say the least. He had seen Granger smile before, and it relaxed her face from its usual pinched expression of disapproval. She was not smiling today. He wasn’t sure if she would ever smile again, to be honest. 

 

“Why?” Hermione said. Her voice was trembling slightly and her hands were white as they gripped her armrests, but her eyes had the intensity of a Sphinx. “Why didn’t you agree to the alternate match? 

 

“Why do you think, Granger?” 

 

“That’s why I’m asking you, you giant prat!” Hermione snapped, springing from her chair. “I’m sure they could have found you someone more suitable.” 

 

Draco’s face was hard, cold, as he sized up her small frame. “Do you really think that I can afford to buck Ministry mandates?”

 

Hermione, taken aback, said, “Well, I suppose not, given your situation.”

 

A harsh laugh escaped Draco’s stiff lips. “’My situation,’ indeed. You know _nothing_ about my _situation._ ” 

 

Hermione blinked at the bitterness in his tone and pursed her full lips. She laid a tentative hand on his broad chest, feeling the incredible heat through the silk. “I can’t know unless you tell me, Malfoy.” 

 

For a moment, Draco considered telling her. Telling her about the frustration, the bribes, the threats, the doctor’s appointments, and the research. Wildly, he wondered if she would be moved to pity him, and the thought of those dark eyes softening made his hand tighten around his wand and lean closer to her small body, close enough that his breath rustled her wild curls. She was pressed against the wood panelling of the room, trembling. Not with fear. No, not Granger. She trembled with a repressed energy, a banked rage that was almost comforting after years of icy cold paranoia. 

 

“I am not the husband you were seeking, and you are most certainly not the sort of wife I was raised to expect.” This close to her he noticed that her dark eyes were flecked with bits of amber and that she had the longest eyelashes he had ever seen. They were almost… lovely. Blinking a little, he came back to himself. “We will be complying with the Ministry. We will get married within the month. You will have all the access to the Malfoy vaults required to be ready for a ceremony fit for our status.” 

 

“But why? Surely, between the two of us we can figure out how to get out of this marriage. Even if we can’t get out of marrying at all, certainly someone else would be better suited.” Hermione laughed, a bit madly. “Anyone would be better suited to be husband and wife.” 

 

The shadows behind Draco’s eyes darkened considerably. “There are things that even money can’t buy, Granger. I need the ministry. I cannot afford to rebel, not when I’m so close…”

 

“Close to what?” Hermione whispered, looking up, her face inches from his. 

 

“None of your business,” Draco hissed. 

 

Hermione’s gaze darted to his mouth quickly, and then quickly jerked it back up to his eyes. Biting her lip, she said, “Perhaps I can help. If I we work together on your, um, _problem_ , then we may not have to get married.” 

 

Draco felt a sudden surge of white-hot rage- rage at her, his helplessness, at this law - melting his bones with its force. “I don’t need you or your pathetic _help_ ,” Draco spat. “You always have to rush in to save the weak and helpless- am I right Granger?” His hand slammed against the door, inches from her head, causing her to jump. “Perhaps the world and its _problems_ would be better off without your disgusting _pity_.” 

 

Hermione stiffened at his words, her face contorting from calculating worry to violent fury in moments. Without thought, she lashed out, the palm of her hand yearning for the satisfaction of hitting his sculpted cheek. 

 

Quick as lightning, Draco caught her wrist in a crushing grip before flesh could make contact with flesh, Seeker’s reflexes intact. 

 

Hermione gave an involuntary grunt of pain. Draco closed his eyes and then his grip unexpectedly gentled, his hand caging hers with the pressure of a butterfly’s wing. 

 

“You will live your life; I will live mine.” Draco stepped back from her abruptly, dropping her hand, leaving her feeling strangely bereft. 

 

Hermione was breathing like she had run a marathon, her anger pooling in her blood, like her magic, giving her power. To hurt. To destroy. “And when the time comes to prove our fertility scores? What happens when no - what did you call them? - _paragons_ , are produced from our marriage? What will the ministry say then?” 

 

He stopped, mid stride, and turned to her, pinning her with his gaze. 

 

Hermione leaned back against the wall, knees suddenly weak. 

 

Draco’s voice lowered, and his eyes dropped to her lips. For a brief moment something indefinable, something _hot_ ignited behind his eyes, but it was gone so soon that Hermione felt she must have imagined it. 

 

“They can fucking deal with it.” 

 

000

 

Harry Apparated to the grassy field outside the Burrow, as he had a million times before, this time with an unfamiliar clenching in his gut. _Please let her be here._

 

After the debacle at the ministry, he had rushed away from Ginny, needing to go, to get _out of there._ Ron had followed, as he always did, and Apparated him to an abandoned beach. Saying nothing, his redheaded friend sat quietly on a weather-beaten log as Harry screamed and ranted and raved and blew up things. Harry wasn't sure how long he had been there. It could have been minutes, could have been hours, but as he came back to himself, as the rage subsided, a new emotion began to surface. 

 

Guilt. 

 

He had left Ginny there, at the Ministry. What kind of boyfriend, what kind of lover did that make him? She was in the same mess as he was and he had left her. 

 

He always left her. 

 

He had sat quietly beside his oldest friend and stared at the ocean, the sound of the grey waves not doing anything to soothe his soul. "Ron, I don't know what to do." 

 

Ron fiddled with a green stick, methodically peeling off the bark in precise strips. Once the stick was naked, the wood white and pristine, he flung it into the ocean, where it was gobbled up by the waves. "Harry... That is a decision only you and my sister can make. I've thought of you as another brother for almost as long as I've known you. As far as I'm concerned, no matter what you do, you will always be my brother, even if you don't end up marrying my sister," he said as he shot Harry a lopsided smile. "But you may have some convincing to do if you want me to accept that nagging pug, Parkinson, as my sister!" 

 

"Thank you," Harry said, "I think I know what I have to do." 

 

So he went to find Ginny.

 

He went to her flat first, with no luck. He didn’t have any better luck at his place. Or the Holyhead Harpies pitch. By the time he made it to the Burrow, it was twilight, and Harry was tamping down his panic. 

 

The late-September evening was perfect, unseasonably warm with no clouds and a slight fresh breeze, hinting at cooler weather to come. The leaves on the trees had started to turn a bright gold, and the squirrels and rabbits were dodging garden gnomes in an attempt to obtain late harvest vegetables from the garden. Harry took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped into the home of the only real family he'd ever had. 

 

Somehow, he expected the house to be different, to feel different after the shock of the day. Harry smiled wryly. _If seven children and a war couldn’t destroy this place, a stupid law certainly can’t._

 

Hearing pans clunking together in the kitchen, he took a deep breath and strode in that direction. He paused in the doorway and leaned into the doorjamb a moment, fondly watching Molly Weasley competently swish her wand, setting potatoes dancing around the peeler and a roast into the oven. As she set herself to the task of fixing a salad, Harry decided to make his presence known, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

 

Molly twirled around, eyes wide and wand raised before she realized who was at her kitchen door and rolled her eyes. “Merlin, child! Don’t startle me so! I’m not getting any younger, you know.” 

 

Harry leaned over, grazed her cheek with his lips and squeezed her shoulder. “Sorry, I know.” Hesitating for a moment, he blurted, “Is Ginny here?” 

 

Molly’s her shoulders sagged as she remembered his probable mission and her only daughter’s unhappiness. She glanced at her worn, beloved clock, the hand pronouncing ‘Ginevra’ was still stuck at ‘Lost.’ Sighing, she wondered why life was so unfair, and why these young people who had already suffered so much still had such a hard journey ahead of them. “She’s in the garden. Here,” she said and handed him a tea tray, heavy with plates of food, a pot of chocolate and a mug, “take this to her. She hasn’t eaten a thing all day.” 

 

He found her in the back of the house near the garden. He remembered that she used to play here as a girl, and that it was always one of her favourite places. Balancing the tray carefully, he approached on quiet, Auror-trained feet. She was curled up with her back to an old oak tree, obviously deep in thought. Harry’s heart ached to see her so small, so forlorn. Usually, she was a bright ball of energy, his light. “Ginny…” 

 

She looked up, her eyes covered by a curtain of red hair. “Harry…” 

 

Harry ignored the pounding in his chest and approached carefully, like she was a timid rabbit, and set the tea tray down beside her. “Um, your mum was worried. She sent you a tray.” 

 

“Not hungry.” 

 

Harry’s heart ached for how sad she looked and felt the tide of guilt come back. _She was here without me to face this. She shouldn’t have been. Poor form, Harry._ Hands shaking a little, he set about pouring a cup of tea for her: milk first, just the right amount, no sugar. 

 

“Here,” Harry said as he handed her the hot brew. Hesitating a little, he put one arm around her shoulders. 

 

“Thank you,” Ginny said reflexively, curling her hands around the warm mug. She burrowed her slim body into Harry’s warmth and sighed, taking an experimental sip. 

 

As they watched the sky darken from twilight to inky black and Ginny drank her tea, Harry was struck again by the _unfairness_ of it all. 

 

He had fought a war. Lost his parents and countless friends. He had _died._ For what? It was a joke, a cruel, sad joke to do this to them. To, once again, tear his life apart, just when he had found some sliver of peace. 

 

Nervously, he tightened his grip on Ginny’s shoulder. Gathering his courage, he said, “We could run away together.” 

 

Ginny’s eyes leapt up to his, full of hope. “What?” 

 

“We could run away,” Harry said, voice eager, getting louder with enthusiasm, “and live far away from here, away from this _law._ I’ve thought it through. We would have to live as Muggles, as the tracing charms would find us otherwise, but I think we could manage it.” 

 

Ginny’s look of bright hope diminished. “I don’t know anything about living as a Muggle.”

 

Harry pressed his lips together in irritation, and his arm fell away from her shoulders. “I didn’t know anything about living as a wizard until I was eleven, and I know it’s intimidating, but we could manage.” 

 

Ginny made a non-committal sound that frustrated him to no end. Couldn’t she see that he was trying? That he was fighting for them? What he was willing to give up for her? The wizarding world was his home as much as hers, his true home, but he would give it up if she only asked. Couldn’t she see that? 

 

“What about children, Harry?” 

 

Harry felt the question as if he had been punched in the gut. He licked suddenly dry lips. “Children?” 

 

“I haven’t forgotten what that… that marriage counsellor said, Harry.” Ginny said in a small defeated voice, “Our fertility scores are dismal, and if we do manage to conceive a child, it will most likely be deformed or a squib.” 

 

“I...” Harry began, feeling lost, “I suppose we could adopt a child.” As he said it, Harry actually rather liked the idea. A child, an orphan like him, given a loving home. He could do that. 

 

“I suppose,” Ginny said, “but I’ve always hoped for a big family.” 

 

A silence grew between them like a cancer, each of them lost in thought as the night grew colder, the sky darker. 

 

”Why did we never talk about this before?” Ginny said as she shivered, “Why did we wait this long?” 

 

Harry smiled, but it was without humour. “I thought we had all the time in the world. Foolish, really.” He looked at the clear night sky and thought of his parents, dead at the age of twenty-one. “I should know better.”

 

Ginny curled up further into herself and said quietly, “I don’t think I could live as a Muggle, Harry,” she raised eyes heavy with tears to his, “but I don’t think I can live without you either.”

 

She scooted over to his side, closing the distance between them and grabbed his hand. “Harry. I love you, and you love me, but I’m not sure that this will work. Maybe in another life where the marriage law didn’t exist and we had time to work through our issues we would have had a chance. Maybe we wouldn’t have.” Ginny smiled a little, without humour. “We will never know, will we?” 

 

“Ginny,” Harry whispered softly, feeling his heartbreak all over again as her hand squeezed his. Reaching out with his other hand, he softly caressed her cheek, sticky with tears. 

 

Ginny closed her eyes, and placed her cool palm over his hand. “Kiss me Harry, one last time.” 

 

And so he did. 

 

000

 

Meanwhile, in another part of Britain entirely, a group of wizards sulked around a fire. Admittedly, the fire was in a large, posh mansion, but they still fancied themselves like the manly men of old, loaded with testosterone. They were uncharacteristically quiet, reflective. Working their way towards being seriously sloshed. 

 

After the war, after the Dark Lord, Draco had seriously contemplated selling Malfoy Manor. It had been in the family since the first Malfois had come across the Channel with William the Conqueror, but to Draco, it had a feeling of slime, a taint that it could never shake. 

 

There, in the library, the Dark Lord had tormented his parents. 

 

There, in the blue parlour, Greyback had murdered a Muggle-born classmate. 

 

There, in the formal dining room, Nagini ingested the corpse of his Muggle Studies professor. 

 

There, in the drawing room, his aunt tortured Hermione Granger. 

 

There was a time he couldn’t bear it, a time when he thought he would go mad from the memories. They consumed him, shamed him. He took to drink, to potions, to dark arts… nothing worked to cleanse his mind. His paranoia, already honed to a steel blade by the Dark Lord, became overwhelming to the point of agoraphobia and insomnia. He existed, mind tormented by knives of fear for months after his trial, haunting his own house at all hours of the day or night, avoiding dreams. 

 

Until his mother got hold of him and forced him to seek help. Until he realized the depths to which he had sunk and begun to take hold of his life again. Until… 

 

He had people who needed him. For them, he could dredge up enough bravery in his shrivelled soul to cope with the lingering stresses of war. Nevertheless, he was still changed, still plagued with nightmares, still ready for battle. It was better than being haunted by despair. 

 

And he had the Manor all but demolished and fully redecorated. That helped too. 

 

The mansion was completely unrecognizable from the shadowy Gothic monstrosity of his youth. The finest architects and interior designers had taken his cue and injected something to the house that it never had before. 

 

Warmth. 

 

The old library, for example, had been paneled with beautifully aged dark walnut stretching to the ceiling. Ornately carved wooden gargoyles atop the shelves would rustle and turn to stare at the visitors, a feature that a young Draco had always found incredibly creepy. The fireplace had been black iron, large and imposing. The furniture was bulky and made of leather and, while comfortable, the chairs always gave Draco’s younger self the impression he was being swallowed whole. The paintings in that part of the house were of his coldest and most imperious relations, icy blond and scowling. 

 

Voldemort had loved it. 

 

Naturally, it was one of the first rooms to go. 

 

The architects first enlarged the windows, stretching them from floor to ceiling. The walnut, along with the gargoyles, was axed. The ceiling was vaulted and painted a pale cream. A magical mural depicting pastoral scenes from Wiltshire stretched around the top third of the room. Burnished gold oak shelves were stuffed to the brim with the books collected over generations. The walls were painted a rich turquoise, giving the room a soothing feel. The fireplace was still enormous, but made of a white marble with golden veins shot through it, and, with a large fire roaring in the grate, a lovely warm hue infused the room. There were large overstuffed chairs and sofas in cream or red scattered throughout the room, and various magical instruments, astrolabes, and globes, whirred softly saving the room from solemn silence. 

 

Draco was pleased with the results. It was now one of his favorite places to spend an afternoon, a place he could relax as much as he ever could nowadays. The disapproving frowns of the portraits made his enjoyment of the room that much sweeter. 

 

Now, however, the décor was the furthest thing from his mind. He stood at the sideboard near the fire and poured himself a generous snifter of Firewhisky attempting to escape, not visions of the past, but a pair of fine dark eyes. He took a long, slow pull, emptying the glass in one swallow. Grimacing at the burn, he set to pouring himself another. 

 

“Come now, leave some for the rest of us,” called Greg. “We all need some Ogden’s right now.” He wasn’t looking at Draco, not really, his usually passive face had taken a haggard expression. He fidgeted on his couch like a restless flobberworm, obviously ill at ease. 

 

Draco grabbed his glass and the mostly full bottle of Firewhisky and headed for the sofa nearest the fire, his back to the wall with a good view of the entire room. He sent a quick, habitual glance to the slightly open door at the other end of the library before flopping down dramatically. He lazily flicked his wand and two snifters floated to Blaise and Greg. 

 

He tossed back the remainder of his glass. Warmth pooled in his stomach, and his head felt both light and muddled. Draco knew that if he didn’t slow down he was on his way to becoming sensationally inebriated. 

 

He took another long drink and smiled, showing sharp teeth. “Cheers, mates.”

 

“To your matrimonial bliss with the illustrious Miss Granger,” Blaise said with a wicked grin. 

 

“Fuck,” Draco said, flinging one arm over his eyes. “My life is over.” 

 

“Come now, Granger isn’t too bad,” Blaise drawled as he sipped his whiskey from his current slouch on the floor by the fire, looking for the entire world like a contented cat. “At least she’s a looker.” 

 

“And the most annoying, bossy, swotty cow that ever existed.” Draco snickered at his own wit and took another sip, hoping to quell the sense of impending doom. 

 

Greg stared at his brandy as if it held the secrets of the universe, the dark circles under his eyes harsh in the firelight. “At least your future wife isn’t in love with another man,” he said quietly. 

 

Blaise grimaced, and looked as contrite as Draco had ever seen him. Which wasn’t very. “I am sorry, mate. That won’t be easy.” 

 

“None of this is.” 

 

They sat in uncomfortable silence drinking whiskey, lost in thought, the only sound the popping from the fire. 

 

Greg, after three more snifters, was well on the way to being pissed. He grabbed the bottle and poured himself another. His dark brows furrowed deeply over his brown eyes, said, “I’m not sure the Ministry’s thought this through.” 

 

A snort came from the general vicinity of the sofa. 

 

“Really,” Greg said, his voice slurring. “The whole point of this is to rebuild the wizarding population, right?” 

 

Blaise, coming out from a light doze at the sounds of conversation, lifted his head from the blue and cream Aubusson carpet and squinted at Greg. “What are you on about?” 

 

“The marriages were all arranged according to who will have the most powerful children, but there was nothing in my contract that stipulates that we will need to have those children.” 

 

“You actually read it?” Blaise asked, his usually crisp syllables indistinct. “I’m impressed. I proceeded immediately to drinking.” 

 

“Well, the ministry certainly can’t regulate, well, guarantee that, ah…” 

 

“Merlin, Greg, are you such a prude that you can’t you say it?” Draco sneered. “The ministry needs us to fuck our future spouses frequently and regularly to have hordes of squalling brats that will save the wizarding world.” 

 

Goyle’s stern features flushed a bit. “Yes, ‘zactly.” 

 

“Well, I certainly won’t have any trouble with that,” said Blaise, putting his arms behind his head and smirking. 

 

Draco shot Blaise a vicious look. A vision of Granger, naked, spread out on his large bed popped into his brain unexpectedly, her large eyes dark with lust and her lovely skin flushed with desire. He squirmed a little on the couch and took a long drink, savouring the distracting burn. “Just because you’re marrying Astoria, I don’t see why you have to gloat.” 

 

“You and Astoria don’t suit anyhow.” 

 

“What do you mean by that?” Draco frowned from his sofa. “We got on perfectly well on our date last night. I was going to ask for another today, actually.” 

 

Blaise took another sip and his bleary eyes narrowed. 

 

Draco continued with his rant, “She’s beautiful, she’s elegant, and she’s polite. Why shouldn’t she be mine? I need to marry, I’ll admit, but why shouldn’t it be my choice who I wed?” 

 

“You may be surprised,” Greg said in his quiet voice. “You… you and Granger have a lot in common.” 

 

Draco sat up straight, sending imaginary daggers at Goyle with his eyes. “Never say so! I will admit she has certain… physical charms, but as soon as she opens her mouth I want to _Avada_ myself.” 

 

He raked one long-fingered hand through his blond hair, his voice growing louder. “I’ve hated her ever since I saw that frightful bush she passes for hair when we were eleven. And while I’ll admit that we’ve gotten on better then I get on with her two best friends, it’s certainly nothing I would base a second-rate marriage on, let alone a successful one.” 

 

He leapt up from the sofa and started to pace, flicking his wand in and out of his wrist sheath, faster and faster, like he was preparing for a duel. “All I’ve wanted since the war was some peace. Is it too much to ask? Now I’m supposed to invite a nagging shrew into my life and a battle into my bedroom.” He halted by the fire and stared at the flames, breathing hard, head high, body rigid, his wand out and ready for battle. 

 

“Draco?” a weak voice called out from the open door at the other end of the library. 

 

Draco’s already tired face seemed to collapse in on itself for a brief moment. All too soon, the moment of vulnerability was over and the stoic mask was back on. 

 

“I’ll be there in a moment,” he called into the other room with a strangely gentle voice. He stood slowly, feeling aged beyond his years. “I trust you can show yourselves out? I have other things to attend to at the moment.”

 

Blaise nodded slowly and slanted a look at Greg. “Of course. Of course.” He stood and hesitated briefly. “Do you need anything?” 

 

Draco smiled without humour. “Everything and nothing.” He closed his eyes briefly before walking towards the open door. “Can you change the past?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank my wonderful betas Mccargi and Ravyn for helping me out with this chapter. They polished it and made it shiny! Thanks for everything guys!

**Author's Note:**

> Started circa 2009. Many, many, many thanks to Ravyn for being my beta and overall writing buddy. Without her, none of this would have happened!


End file.
